


A Special Kind of Broken

by GreedIsGreen



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Dark Sansa, F/M, I haven't decided, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Manipulation, Non-Consensual Spanking, Older Man/Younger Woman, Past Abuse, Petyr's an asshole but he's trying, Revenge, Sex, Some light Cat Stark, Some mentions of Arya Stark, They may fuck on a pile of dead bodies by the end of this, Trust Issues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-19
Updated: 2018-05-19
Packaged: 2018-11-15 20:52:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 28,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11238963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GreedIsGreen/pseuds/GreedIsGreen
Summary: When the Lannisters make a play for the city and Ned Stark winds up dead, Sansa must choose: run and hide, or go with the man offering her a chance at revenge.Petyr Baelish isn't honest or trustworthy, but Sansa knows exactly what he wants. Can she use what little leverage she has on him to take back everything that was stolen, and not lose herself in the process?A tale of manipulative fuckery.





	1. Stiletto

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Revised and edited 9/3/18

  
[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/156656163@N08/29767106147/in/dateposted-public/)  
  


The man's sudden appearance shouldn't surprise Sansa; his attentions have been laser-focused on her for some time. Even before she was old enough to have breasts, grey-green eyes lingered on her presence, alight with an unknown sort of expectation. And with each passing year, that gaze grew darker, hungrier. At first, she figured he was just another wealthy pervert partaking in a bit of eye candy. There were plenty of those in King's Landing, after all. It wasn't until she was older and more accustomed to the leers of men, that she noticed the pervasive way he followed her — her and no one else. 

It was a bit more shocking, however, that poor Harry had a bullet in his brain now. Rousing out of her temporary stupor, Sansa tugged the hem of her skirt back down from where it had ridden up in her flight, and glanced at the stiff outline of Petyr Baelish — Littlefinger. He was shadowed beneath the doorway's arch; his expression unreadable while her own harried countenance was exposed on the moonlit veranda. 

She should not have come here, would not have except that she needed an escape from the overbearing rigidity Ned Stark called protection, and Harry was a simple foil to exploit as her father's favored right hand man. Ned encouraged their outings, ignorant to the boy's failings, and Sansa found him easy enough to control or ditch as needed, but had never feared for her safety. Not until tonight. Something about him, about the entire evening felt off. A crackling frisson in the air that unsettled Sansa until she finally decided to make for home, but Harry wouldn't have it, blocking her at every turn until his game played out and blood was spilled — and it was clear he intended for it to be hers. Sansa should be thankful to Littlefinger for his intervention, but she found herself more annoyed than anything. The stiletto blade in her hand itching without a home, underused adrenaline coursing expectantly through her veins. Her body trembled with no outlet for release, so Sansa kicked the asshole at her feet, blood smearing the ground where his head jolted, blonde hair darkening red as the ever-growing pool beneath it widened. 

Rounding the paling body, Sansa strutted to where her protector sat still and silent, accosting him with irritation. “What are you doing here?”

“I think the words you're looking are _‘thank you’_ ," he sneered while he re-holstering his gun in its shoulder strap. 

“I had it under control,” she shot back, brandishing the knife between them before tucking it back in its hiding place at the back of her heel. 

Smirking, he stepped into the light, green eyes wide and mocking. “Ah! Had my penchant for chivalrous behavior not gotten the best of me, you would have looked lovely bathed in evidence.” The lightness of his expression shifted into a scowl as the space between them dwindled. He grabbed her upper arm forcefully, pulling her flush to his side to whisper in her ear, “Be thankful I _was_ here. This is nothing to have cleaned compared to the bloodbath that boy planned to initiate.”

“I could have handled him,” Sansa said with more confidence than she truly felt, but jerked herself free, stubbornly refusing to acknowledge the hand he played in her rescue, and set out to leave, eager to return to the haven of home and speak to her father about the night's events. 

Littlefinger watched after her as she tread towards the front of the house, enjoying the curve of her backside before he spoke again. “I have some bad news for you. And information," he added as an afterthought. 

“Take it to my father,” she tossed over her shoulder, her stride unfaltering. “You know he doesn't want me in the life anymore.”

Littlefinger trailed after her lackadaisically, hands tucked into pockets. “Normally, I would, but he is _indisposed_.” The severity she heard in his voice made her blood run cold, and that unease which had followed her all night returned full force. 

The tap of her shoes slowed to a stop and Sansa pivoted to face him, examining him for any detail to give away what he'd come to say. She found only the smoldering forest of his eyes, and a mischievous tilt to his mouth. Fists clenched, she took one cautious step towards where he stood, self-satisfaction radiating off him in a way that made her flush with anger. “Tell me.”

He advanced until they were toe to toe. “All information has a price, Miss Stark. I thought your _daddy_ would have taught you that.”

_Such a condescending louse._ Sansa glared a thousand daggers at him. “What do you want?”

He bounced on his heels, that toothy leer she'd come to expect playing at his mouth as he leaned into her. “Everything.”

The cool, sweetness of mint stung her eyes, and she blinked it away, realizing as she did the steady onset of her exhaustion now that the high dudgeon of her blood was subsiding. But this merry-go-round of his teasing tried her patience, and she couldn't mask her tired annoyance anymore as the retort left her lips, “That's a bit beyond my allowance.” She crossed her arms, a meager barrier between them.

“Perhaps,” he said before rasping in her ear, “but a kiss, I think, might do for now.” He reclined his head, sharp eyes narrowed to take in her flustered complexion, the way her mouth gaped, arms so recently raised now dropped limply at her side. 

“A kiss?” The request didn't surprise her necessarily. The _mundaneness_ of it did. Perhaps, the tidbit he was dangling before her was not so terrible if all he asked for is a kiss. If that was the case, then she'd give him the bare minimum to satisfy his demand. Hands light upon his shoulders, she graced his cheek with the gentlest brush of her lips before retreating back a step to meet his eyes. They burned with icy challenge, narrowing to thin slits as his arm caught about her waist, pulling her into his embrace, trapping her against him until there was no light, no air between them. Her hands bunched futilely in his jacket as he growled, “You'll have to do better than that, sweetling.”

Soft lips pressed to her own, tongue teasing for entry, and her body stiffened, the previous rage she felt returning full force. Sansa rebuffed his advance, her face wrenching to the side. He pulled back, eyes burning into her own, gripping her chin until she thought it might bruise. “Kiss back or you get nothing.”

“Fuck you!” she spat. 

His lips twisted in a decidedly dangerous manner as his eyes made a suggestive pass over her. “Perhaps another time.” His mouth crashed against hers once more, lithe fingers wrapped tight at the back of her neck, tangled in the auburn web of her curls, and with little choice left, she paid his price. 

This time it was different. It was not gentle. It was all teeth and hate and need, and Sansa reciprocated every pain he inflicted until the coin flipped, and pleasure roiled through her. She didn't realize they were moving backward until the sharp juts of the stone wall dug into her back. That is going to leave a mark. She should push him away, but the coarseness of his dark hair threading between her fingers felt sublime. The way his hands gripped and nails scratched drove her to forget the madness of this, everything about this, right down to its purpose. She felt powerful in his arms and was drunk on it. 

Her thigh was hiked up, her leg wrapping around his hip, and she couldn't say who initiated that, but that's when she felt it. The hard length of his erection grinding against her, sending a most exquisite jolt through her that ended in a gasp. At the parting of their lips, the maelstrom feeding her id suddenly cleared. Sansa wrenched away, jettisoning Petyr a safe distance away as she struggled to regain her composure. Ragged breaths left her as she tugged the hem of her dress down for the second time that night, her legs feeling shaky and brittle beneath her. “You got your kiss," she spat. "Now talk.”

The normally callous and smug demeanor that she anticipated seeing when she finally dared to look at him again was absent. His face was flushed, his eyes softer than she'd ever seen them as he caught his breath. Then, in an instant, it returned. He smoothed back those slick black and grey waves, that were so recently trapped between her fingers, and adjusted his clothing where it had been mussed. His voice sounded almost bored as he responded, “Your father is dead.”

“What?” Blue eyes widened and her brow creased as she watched him for any hint of a lie. She didn't want to believe him, even as that ominous gut feeling she'd had all night told her he was telling the truth. As second-in-command to the Baratheon family, the Starks ran in dangerous circles, more so since Robert Baratheon's death. There had always been a simmering disdain between Stark and Lannister, but after Sansa broke her engagement with Robert's son, Joffrey, the turmoil between the families only intensified — his maternal line taking the offense with all the affronted pride of a cat. The last year had been a nightmare to navigate. Her father naysayed any help she offered claiming he would handle it, but clearly something had gone wrong. _Terribly, terribly wrong._ Sansa clutched a hand to her stomach as if the action would hold her together. Barely a whisper passed her lips, voice weak as she pressed him, “How?” 

“He went to treat with the Lannisters at the docks. He claimed he had something that would change the game in town and drive them out for good. I told him it was a fool’s errand, that half the city is in their pocket, but he wouldn't listen. Joffrey's men shot him down the second he entered the building.” Littlefinger was so nonchalant about it she wanted to spit. As though he didn't just extort her compliance only to turn around and serve her betrayal. 

Outrage burning hot in her veins, she accused, “And where were you?! You promised my mother you would protect him!”

“I'm a practical man,“ he supplied, casually turning the ring on one hand as he shrugged off any acknowledgement of the pain this news brought her. “Short of knocking him out and throwing him on the nearest boat, I couldn't save him.”

Sansa charged forward and a loud _thwack_ resonated in the cooling night air. The hand that struck him clutched against her chest, the discomfiting burn like a lifeline to sanity, and she wanted to hold on to it for as long as possible lest she break. Murderous eyes stared down her nose at him, the urge to find a bloody sheath for that stiletto raging hot. “You're a fucking asshole, Baelish.” With those words, she sidestepped him to leave, the _click clack_ of her pointed heels echoing off the tile floor. 

“There's more,” Petyr called out behind her, rubbing the raw skin where she struck him. 

Sansa paused mid stride, refusing to look at him. _Her father — the most honest and trustworthy man she'd ever known — is dead. What else could there possibly be? What new hell could be delivered to her this night?_ The malignant thought sent a shiver of fear down her spine. With a tremulous breath, she turned to face him. “I'm listening.”

Slowly, he stepped towards her. One. Two. Until they were a mere arm's length apart. “They aren't done.”

“What do you mean?”

“The Lannisters mean to wipe you out. The Baratheons are out. No one wants to deal with Stannis, and Renly doesn't exactly conform to the role, well-liked as he may be. The Starks are the only family sitting between them and unchecked rule over the city.” He came closer, his expression softening to something resembling pity. “They've sent the Mountain north to finish it. I gather that Harry was to be your end.”

_No._ She held her breath once she asked, “How long?”

“An hour, maybe two if the delay I set up at the airport works. I tried to call your mother, but she didn't answer,” Littlefinger explained, his hand coming up to rest on her arm in a reassuring way that helped to steady her rapidly revolving thoughts. “You may still have time.”

_Time._ There is still time. 

Backing out of his grip, Sansa turned and raced out to her car, opening the door to reach for her purse. Her hands trembled as she tipped its contents out into the driver's seat. Her belongings scattered and clattered, only stopping when at last her mobile fell onto the pile. After dialing home, Sansa paced impatiently, the wait between rings feeling interminably long. 

“Hey, sweetie.” The familiar, loving voice of Catelyn Stark traveled over the line, and the last of Sansa's resolve crumbled to dust.

“Mom,” she cried. “Thank god.” Tears were streaming now, and she did nothing to hide it. 

Concern slipped into her mother’s tone. “Sansa, what's the matter?”

Leaning against the car, Sansa pleaded, “Mom, get the boys and leave. Leave right now. Don't pack. Just grab some money and some protection and go.”

Exasperated, Cat huffed, “Sansa, you aren't making any sense. Tell me what’s happened?”

There was no use sugar coating it. She dredged up the last well of her strength to break the news, pushing down the sobs that desperately wanted to erupt. “Dad is dead.” The silence on the other end of the line was deafening, and Sansa pushed on. “The Lannisters are making a play for control. They've sent the Mountain north. He's coming for you all. He’ll be there soon, possibly within the hour.”

“No, no, no. _Oh, Ned._ ” Sansa could hear her mother's racking breaths, see the grief and the fear on her face when she closed her eyes. “What about you? What about Arya? Are you safe?”

_Oh god, she hadn't even thought about Arya, too wrapped up in what was directly presented to her to think about the abstract of anyone else. Was she safe? Were either of them?_

“We're fine. We're safe,” she swallowed the lie down along with the bile that threatened. She had no idea as to Ayra's whereabouts, but informing her mother of that wouldn't help. “I have a friend who is helping us.” Another lie. Her only real friend in the city was engaged to Joff now. With war, she wouldn't be able to call on Margaery for aid. “Now go. Please go,” she begged. 

“Okay, I'll gather up Robb and the boys. We will figure this out. _They will not get away with this._ " The last said with so much scorn, Sansa had no doubt her father would be avenged. More softly, "I love you, sweetheart. Both of you. Be safe.”

“I love you, too, Mom.”

The line went dead, and Sansa wanted to collapse, let the earth swallow her up in her sadness and anger until she could be reborn a vengeful goddess ready to smite her enemies. But there was no time to lie idle, so she rested her head rest against the cold metal of the car’s roof, praying for a plan to foment before another Lannister lackey was sent to finish the job Harry failed to carry out. The crunch of shoes on the concrete drive caught her attention. He was watching her, and had probably heard the whole damn exchange with her mother. She cursed beneath her breath as her head lifted and she wiped the tears from her eyes. 

"Trash the phone. They'll be tracking your GPS the second Harry doesn't check in."

Sansa wanted to yell and scream at him that she wasn't an idiot. She knew how they worked more intimately than most, having lived behind enemy lines for longer than she cared to admit, but the protest died in her throat. The phone in her hand was her last connection to anyone she loved, but it would also doom her. The irony wasn't lost on her, and she fought back another wave of tears as it was tossed carelessly to the ground. She crushed it with the sharp point of her heel until glass and metal made an abstract splatter against the grey beneath it. 

When she finally turned to her erstwhile savior, he nodded in approval, and tossed something at her. She barely grasped it mid air, turning her palm to reveal a screwdriver. “Remove the plates,” he ordered. “I'll file the VIN.”

Sansa hesitated. “You're helping me? What's the price for this?” she asked, knuckles white around the tool in her hand. 

Littlefinger glanced up at her from beneath a raised brow as he removed a small grinder from his pocket. “We’ll discuss terms later.” He walked up to her, where she stood as the last sentry to her car. 

Impertinence threaded her tone. “I think we should discuss it now.”

He quirked an amused eyebrow at her demand. “I don’t exactly think you're in a place to negotiate terms, Miss Stark. Do you?” 

No, she wasn’t. _Damn him._

Sansa gritted her teeth in frustrated indignation, but ultimately, let him pass and followed through with his instructions. The violent sound of the dremel grated her nerves as she removed the plates and gathered her few meager belongings from the trunk and backseat. She knew well what came next. 

He must have already called for body disposal while she was on the phone with her mother, because he didn't seem concerned about it as he worked, pouring gasoline over her little blue BMW. She was going to miss that car. Though, in the grand scheme of things, she supposed it didn't matter. As of right now, she was alone. Petyr Baelish now her only lifeline to the outside world, her only hope of survival. _And isn't that just peachy_ , she sneered. 

Her task done, Sansa sat silently in the passenger seat of his silver coupe while he riffled through the trunk. A Molotov cocktail was lit and thrown from the driver’s side, and he jumped into the vehicle, guiding it a safe distance away before killing the engine. 

“Why are we stopped?” Sansa asked, auburn brows furrowed. 

Littlefinger looked at her with a lazy smile on his lips, eyes glinting silver in the car's shadows. “My favorite part is coming up.”

As if on cue, the gas tank of the BMW behind them exploded, and she jumped in her seat, spinning to take in the spectacle. It was an oddly beautiful sort of chaos. Metal debris scattered to the wind and the flames licked beneath the bright white moon above. They watched together in fascination as it burned. 

As the fire receded to a muted bellow, Sansa addressed him once more, the reflected fire in his eyes giving them an otherworldly glow. “So, what now?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God, so, like here's the deal. I had planned to have chapter three if Calamitous Serendipity ready to post this weekend, but then this little story popped in my head and I couldn't focus. I wrote a small note with intention to come back to it, but it still plagued me, man. Idek. So I wrote the first chapter. Then I wrote the second. And two days later I have eight chapters of a ten chapter fic completed save for some editing. So, like whatever. TAKE IT.


	2. Chapter 2

They’d been on the road four days. Sansa marveled at Petyr’s stamina. He was a machine, only allowing her to drive for an hour or two so he could rest his eyes, and taking over again without complaint. They survived on convenience store cuisine and bottled water; washing with baby wipes, never stopping for longer than to fill up the gas tank and run to the restroom. And for once, Sansa was thankful for her habit of procrastinating on laundry. Among the items she'd rescued from her car were a set of dirty gym clothes — yoga pants and a tank top — that had been forgotten in the bottom of a backpack she used for school. They were ripe, but far preferable to wearing the skimpy black dress that Petyr found her in a few nights previous. It was easier to ignore his constant, lingering gaze if she wasn't pulling at her hemline every five minutes. 

Sansa’s back ached. Petyr's convertible wasn't designed for long road trips, and gave little in the way of comfort. The man in question looked more than a little ragged himself. Deep circles added a menacing edge to a face that was already marked with a dark shrewdness. If she didn't know him, hadn't played this game of cat and mouse with him over the years, she might be afraid. But she did know him, as much as anyone could claim, and so she closed her eyes and dreamed of a real bed, of a proper shower. 

When they opened again, the car was stopped. 

“We’re here,” came Petyr's gravelly voice. 

It was a cabin. On three sides, it was surrounded by forest and rock. She heard the lapping of water, and was surprised to look behind them and see the vast Narrow Sea stretching into the distance. 

“Where are we?” Sansa asked, as she stretched cramped limbs. 

“The Fingers,” he stated on his exit, slamming the car door behind him. 

Sansa hesitated, only leaving the car when Petyr opened her door, and motioned for her to do so. It's not as though staying would convince him to take her elsewhere. And the lure of being able to walk and breathe air that wasn't bogged down by exhaust fumes was too tempting. She lurched on her first step out of the vehicle, legs weak and unsure from their confinement. Petyr only just managed to catch her, and she pulled from his grip almost immediately. 

She was more than a little annoyed with him. Petyr spoke to her no more than was strictly necessary the entire drive, and had been tight-lipped in whatever plans he was making. The rudeness of it rankled, and she’d given up deciphering his intentions after the first day, letting the waves of his plotting mind guide them unquestioned. 

The door to the hideaway had to be forcefully pushed open, hinges rusted over with time and disuse. Taking in the decor, the dust that caked every surface, the lack of electricity, Sansa gathered that wherever they were was remote enough that nobody may actually know about it. The perfect place to kill someone and dispose of their body. _How comforting._

“Stay here,” Petyr directed. 

A sarcastic retort about her plans to attend the nearest tourney laid heavy on her tongue, but she bit it back, and watched his form retreat back from whence they came. She heard a click, a rattle, and the lights overhead illuminated, modern convenience restored. At least there was that. 

Her savior, her captor reappeared. “Sorry for the mess,” said Petyr as he tugged the corner of a dingy white linen up. “If I had foreseen the need to use this place, I would have had my people out here to get it set up.” An old mission style sofa was revealed. He bundled the cloth in his hands and tossed it to the corner without care. “We should have hot water in thirty minutes or so. Bedroom and bath is through there.” He tipped his head, indicating a door behind her. “I need to run into town for groceries. Is there anything you need?”

Sansa spun around as she absorbed her new temporary digs. “Soap, shampoo, deodorant,” she shrugged. “Tampons,” she threw over her shoulder with a smirk, curious about his reaction. 

Petyr’s brows quirked, and a barely perceptible upturn graced the corner of his lips. “I'll see what I can do.” He was out the door before she could say anything more. 

The next half hour, Sansa busied herself, gathering the remaining covers off the furniture and wiping down the small galley style kitchen with a few rags she found in a drawer. The place may be a dump, but she could at the very least make it liveable for however long she was to spend here. 

Surveilling her work, she was pleased to see it wasn't so bad as originally thought. Yes, the furniture was old, the TV was a box, and there was zero hope of contacting the outside world, but it was… cozy. 

Sansa flipped on the kitchen faucet, testing the water. When it came through steaming and hot, she almost squealed in delight. She stripped off her clothes in the bedroom, then located a threadbare towel beneath the bathroom sink along with a few old, unused hotel toiletries. They would have to do. If she hurried, she might be able to finish before Petyr’s return. 

The warm water was a balm as it flowed over her, helping to wash away the residue of the road, the powder scent of the wet wipes she’d been using. While it felt wonderful, it also gave her time. Time alone with the thoughts she'd been avoiding, the feelings she'd been repressing in her flight. 

Her father was dead. Her mother, her siblings, on the run. Petyr assured her that he’d sent someone for Arya, too, but the ornery girl refused his help and made a run for it. It was so like her sister Sansa wanted to scream every obscenity she knew, and vowed she would the second they reunited again — assuming they reunited again. 

She ducked her head into the stream and allowed herself this one moment of weakness; allowed the tears to fall, allowed herself to mourn, to be afraid. Only when the water ran cold, did she compose herself once more, ready to face the monsters that still lurked. 

Sansa dried off and wrapped the towel around her, hoping that maybe there was a robe or a set of old clothes in the dresser she could throw on in place of the filth she'd been wearing. When she emerged, Petyr was on the bed, leaning back on an elbow, a smug expression on his face. A few bags sat on the floor around him. 

“Feeling better?” he asked. 

His eyes raked over her, and she affixed the towel tighter around herself. “Yes.”

“Good.” He stood and walked to stand in front of her. “I think it's time to discuss the terms of my help.”

Sansa expected this, but not quite so soon. She hoped the lech might give her a day to recuperate, but perhaps she gave him too much credit.

“Oh? I think I know your terms,” she emphasized, cupping him over his pants, “quite well.” He hissed, hands shooting out, bringing her closer. “But,” she craned her neck to whisper in his ear, “I have a few of my own.”

His nostrils flared. “Name them,” he gritted out. 

“I'll give you what you want.” She paused just long enough to see him glow with triumph, then yanked it away with deft skill. “Eventually.” An argument was on his lips, but she forestalled him, pushing him down onto the bed. She straddled him, bent over to whisper against his mouth as her hands worked his erection free. “You have to earn it though.”

Petyr groaned. It sounded almost painful, almost reverent. “What do,” he gulped as her hand wrapped around his aching member. “What do you want?”

She looked deeply into his eyes. “I want them dead — Joffrey, Tywin, Cersei. All of them.”

“That's a tall order,” Petyr said, even as his hips bucked into the hand that was working him over. “What makes you think I can help you?” 

Sansa straight up admired that he could hold a conversation with her like this. His lip trapped between his teeth, enticingly provocative. She tightened her grip on him, and felt his whole body go rigid in response. Her lips brushed teasingly at the edges of his mouth. “You're a powerful man, Mr. Baelish. You think I don't see how you play all the families — always amiable, always willing to help. Even mine? You're the only one with the clout to give me what I need. And I will reward you each step of the way. Starting with this.” 

She thumbed over the head of his straining cock, spreading the fluid there over taut skin. She watched the foreskin roll, felt the engorged muscle beneath pulse and twitch under her fingers. Petyr’s face contorted with each manipulation of the flesh, each stroke — up and down. Sansa felt dizzy. The control she had over him setting her heart to race. The stirrings of her arousal budded in response. He must have smelled her on the air, felt the dampness seeping through his pant leg, because he tried to work his hands under the towel she still wore, but she slapped them away, releasing her hold on him to pin those pesky arms beside his head. 

She rolled her hips against him, a breathy moan her only concession that this was affecting her as much as it was him. The towel that still covered her, the only partition between flesh. “I don't think so, Mr. Baelish. Quid pro quo,” she breathed. “Nothing is free.” She freed her grip when she was confident he wouldn’t try again, and applied it elsewhere. He arched into her hand. “You don't get to touch me until I see progress. For now, this is all you get.”

His hands shot down to the sides of her legs, digging into the quilt beneath them, and he hissed out, “Damn, sweetling. At least kiss me while you fuck me over.”

Sansa considered his request as her palm caressed the heated throb between his legs, remembering how his lips moulded so well to her own. The sweet hint of mint that she only noticed on his breath before, and now knew the taste of intimately. It was so easy to get lost kissing him. 

_Too easy._

She leant down, nuzzled his nose with her own, and when he sat up to catch her mouth, she withdrew. Her hand working over him in a fervor. “No,” she whispered. 

The denial must have shocked Petyr enough to lose the meticulous control he’d been exerting. His eyes clenched tight as he convulsed beneath her, his voice a growl, knuckles white where they fisted at her sides. His cum shot out over the four day old shirt he wore, a geyser of milky white fluid, leaking over her own slender digits. 

When his breathing calmed, and he opened his eyes to look at her once more, Sansa revealed her trump card. Leaning back on his thighs, she licked his spendings from her digits, and he cursed. 

“You’ll be the death of me,” he panted. 

Blue eyes flashed. “A girl can dream.”


	3. Chapter 3

There was only the one bed. That first night, Sansa argued for Petyr to sleep elsewhere. 

He balked at her request. “If you're so afraid of sleeping next to me, you're welcome to the sofa, sweetling. I am not going anywhere.” Then, emphasizing his refusal, Petyr jumped onto the bed (it creaked so loud she thought the frame would snap), reclining into the pillows, hands behind his head, shit eating grin on his face. _Contrary bastard._

The pillow closest to her was snatched with a huff, and Sansa yanked at the quilt until he scrambled off it in amusement. 

The asshole’s smug voice called out as she quit the room, “Sleep well, Miss Stark!”

Sansa grumbled a curse under her breath in response, tugging the covers up over her as she settled into the couch. Two hours later, as the cushioning thinned out beneath her, and every spring dug into her back, she began to understand why Petyr found her suggestion so preposterous. She bounced over on her side in a last ditch effort to get comfortable only to strike her head against one of the exposed wooden arms. _Goddammit._

Sansa sighed as she rubbed the new knot on her head. _This isn’t working_. She jutted up, letting out a quiet snarl of frustration, and snuck back into the bedroom with her pilfered items. It was dark, but she could just make out Petyr's sleeping form. She padded over to the bed, and eased down into the empty space opposite him, her back a firm wall. Just as her pulse began to calm, she felt the bed quake, and muffled chuckles fill her ears. 

The son of bitch was _laughing_ at her. Sansa kicked Petyr’s shin in retribution, but that only made him laugh harder. She pulled the cover tighter around herself determined to ignore him, but his mirth was contagious. 

She couldn't keep the smile out of her tone. “You're such an ass.” Sansa chucked their sudden bout of camaraderie up to delirious exhaustion as they both passed out shortly thereafter.

The smell of bacon greeted her the next morning, and she stumbled out of bed to see Petyr in the kitchen working over an open flame. It was evident in his movements that he was _not_ a cook. He jumped back as bacon grease splattered, and his thumb was shoved into his mouth with a hiss. 

Sansa pushed him out of the way, trying to suppress a grin. “The flame is too high, ya dolt.” And she proceeded to dampen the burner and rescue what meat she could from turning to charcoal briquettes. 

Petyr echoed her words from less than a week ago back at her. “I had it under control.”

“I don’t think the bacon agrees,” Sansa said, holding up a blackened strip from his attempt. 

“It just so happens, that's the way I like it.” He bit the tip that she waved in his face, and Sansa giggled as his face soured, and he bent over the garbage can to spit it out. 

“Whatever you say, Mr. Baelish,” she chided playfully as she returned to the task before her. 

Petyr sidled up to her, brushing back the hair from her neck. The tickle caused a shiver to peal through her. “You can call me, Petyr, you know. I won't bite.”

The bacon was flipped in the pan. “I know,” she said meeting his eyes. “I just don't want to.”

His tongue wet his lips and eyes crinkled at the corners, as he leaned against the counter next to Sansa, arms crossed as he watched her work. 

“So what’s the plan?” Sansa asked. “I assume you have one, and I'm not stuck hiding out here forever.”

“I don’t know about that,” Petyr teased rubbing at the scruff on his jaw. “I could certainly get used to this arrangement — pretty girl in my bed, and one who can cook? I think I'm in heaven.” He popped a bite of bacon that she’d just plated into his mouth, and smirked. 

“Like they’d let you in heaven?” Sansa taunted incredulously. “Hell, maybe. If you want to test your luck though, let me know,” she said, indicating to the knife block behind him. 

Petyr relished in her spunk, eyes glinting in appreciation. “Maybe not just yet,” he hummed with diversion. Loosening his posture, he braced his hands on the counter, voice serious, “To answer your question, we’re waiting.”

She arched her brow at him. “For?”

“Things are too hot in King's Landing,” he explained. “The Lannisters will exhaust their search in a couple weeks before expanding out. We lay low until then.”

“So we do nothing?” sighed Sansa. 

“ _You_ do nothing,” Petyr stressed. “I have things well in hand.”

The tongs she held dropped in the pan as she faced him. “And I'm just supposed to trust you?”

A perceptive grin was his only response. 

There was no more talking of plans after that. Petyr always deflecting any questions Sansa had until she was blue in the face. So they spent the next week playing a curiously twisted game of house. 

The television was ornamentary as Sansa was quick to discover, and that relegated her entertainment to whatever she could find on the bookshelf, and the book of sudoku she kept in her purse. Petyr on the other hand was a flurry of activity. He’d disappear at the same time everyday with his phone. Taking a walk in the woods he claimed, but she knew he was up to something. When he wasn't doing that, he’d make runs into town or occasionally split wood for the fireplace. She never imagined that he could stoop to doing an activity so very common, but caught herself on more than one instance staring out the window to watch him work. 

Their nights were… _interesting_. After dark, he pushed the limits of their arrangement by touching her. Sometimes she would allow him little trespasses; allow him to brush his lips against her shoulder, to finger her hair, to press his hand along the curve of her hip. Tiny tastes to tempt him, bend him to her will. More often, however, Sansa woke up to him fondling her in his sleep, hands roaming the planes of her thighs, skimming her ribs, cupping her breasts. It was only when they began exploring between her legs that she would shove him away. He would grunt and roll over — seemingly oblivious — and Sansa would sit in the dark flustered from his attentions. 

This happened to be one such evening, and it had affected her far more than she wanted to admit. So the girl did the only thing she could do to calm that ache — she jumped in the shower. 

It was as Sansa washed her face — eyes obstructed by the flow of water — that she felt a cold breeze pebble her skin, heard the clang as the curtain was pulled back. Recognition flared, and before she could stop him, his hands found her torso, the coarse hair of his chest scratching at the skin of her back. Petyr pulled her taut, his teeth finding her throat. She squirmed to free herself, but the water worked against her, hands slipping futilely in the attempt. 

She let her head collapse into him. “Let me go.”

“Not yet.”

His breath on her neck sent tremors down her spine. She tried to spin around, but his arm constricted, driving the air from her lungs in a gasp as his free hand dipped between her legs. She wriggled in protest, but then came the press of digits, quick circles agitating that pulse between her legs to a potent fire. 

Her voice was a whisper as she ground against him. “This… wasn't part of our deal.”

“Fuck our deal. You want this as much as I do.” His voice was a deep, grating rasp. “Do you think I'm blind, Miss Stark? How long have I watched you play your games with all those _boys_?” he said derisively. “Neanderthals not fit to tread the ground you walk on. How long have I waited for you to tire of their mindless pawing?” 

Sansa trembled in his hold. She closed her eyes to the onslaught of his words, _denying denying denying_ , even as she shifted to give him more access. 

“You can keep lying to yourself, Sansa.” Her name dripped from his lips like smooth gin. “I don't mind. I'm nothing, if not patient.” His nose nuzzled into her damp hair, where he breathed deeply, and for the first time she noticed the stiff presence of his erection. It slicked between her cheeks with a delicious squelch. “But,” his teeth raked the curve of her ear, “if I'm going to risk my neck for you, I think I need to examine the merchandise first. What say you?”

Sansa knew that if she said to stop he would, but _god!_ Petyr was right. She did want this. And judging by her shaking legs, he knew what he was doing and was wickedly good at it. She sank into him, one hand reached back to thread into his hair while the other covered his wrist to guide him. It was the only response she could give, untrusting of her own voice, and he ran with the non-verbal consent — a man determined to make his point. 

His brazen fingers worked her to her peak only to retreat, and tease at her entrance. Over and over with infuriating precision until Sansa thought her legs would liquify. The waves he built, crested over her, one after another, even as his turgid cock rocked against her backside. When lithe digits finally, blissfully, entered her slickness, any protests she may have had left died little deaths; her whimpers and moans the only sound other than the water splashing against the tile. 

Sansa’s hand shot out to steady herself against the wall as their struggling breaths meshed together. The feel of him, pressed harshly against her, the beating of the hot water over her breasts, she could barely breathe. It was simultaneously too much, and not enough. 

Petyr’s thumb flicked wildly over her clit as his fingers delved and pushed, wringing out every ounce of her pleasure. Sansa came violently, a trembling mess in his arms. 

Barely had her legs stabilized when Petyr declared, “My turn,” and presented the the fingers that had just wrung orgasm from her. “Suck,” he ordered. And god help her, she did. 

Her tongue lapped at his digits. They tasted of salt and musk — of her. Petyr moaned when she finally took them into her mouth. Her cheeks hollowed as they slipped in and out, and his hips rolled harder, faster against her. The arm that held her almost painfully before, went slack, his movements became erratic. Then, Sansa felt him — heard him — as he reached his own end. His hand joined hers against the wall, their fingers almost entwined as he came. Remnants of cum coated his stomach, her back. His breathing ragged as his head rested on her shoulder. When their heartbeats evened, he spun her, and her hands found his chest, fingers tangled in the hair there, as his arm held her to him.

If Petyr wanted to kiss her, weakened from her climax, she wouldn't be able to fight him. Didn't want to fight him, if she were honest with herself. Instead, he cupped her face, trailing his thumb over her lips, the tip of his tongue visible, trapped between teeth, doing no more than looking. Studying the flush of her face post-orgasm. Committing it to memory. 

Then, with a gentleness she never thought him capable, Petyr rinsed her off. Rinsed himself off before escorting her to bed, tucking himself in behind her. Their naked bodies touching at every point as he held her and she drifted into a dreamless sleep. 

The following morning, when Sansa awoke, Petyr was gone. The car was gone. The kitchen restocked. There was a pang in her chest — barely there, barely detectable — due to his silent disappearance. No word of warning, no note telling her why he left or when he’d be back. 

The last words from her mother came back to Sansa as she stared out towards the dirt road that delivered her here.

“Be safe.”


	4. Chapter 4

Days passed, and with each one Sansa grew more worried about Petyr’s absence; more resentful of his exclusion of her in whatever scheme he was concocting. It was far too reminiscent of the early days post-Joffrey. The way Ned Stark forced her out of the life, terrified that he’d come home one day not to just her beaten and bloody, but to her dead. Over protective. Though, in Petyr’s case, it was not _fatherly_ concern that provoked him. His motivation was something Sansa didn't want to examine too closely just yet, afraid of what she might find. 

It had been over a week — nine days to be precise. All the indoor options for entertainment had been exhausted, and so Sansa took to exploring beyond — the shallow forest, the boulders. It was as she walked along the cliff’s edge that she found the trailhead. It snaked down the face of the jagged coast to the waterline. Solid feet carried her down of their own volition. 

It could hardly be called a beach. A mostly rocky shore met the murky grey waters. Sansa balanced rock to rock, climbing and stumbling her way down it's bumpy, wending lane as the sea spray stuck to her hair. 

There was a notch in the cliff face. Sansa scrambled her way up to it, curiosity getting the better of her. It was a cave. It would have been nothing to her save an unusual landmark, except for the colors that decorated the walls. Perhaps this little hideaway wasn't as secluded as Sansa first thought. 

Her fingers trailed over the rough edges and cracks as she followed the caves surface. The paint was old, faded. Graffiti depicted a titan with green glowing eyes of wildfire, a bird in flight, words and phrases. ‘Pimpin’ Ain’t Easy’ scrawled in big, articulated bubble letters brought a laugh to her lips. There was a tag for the artist at the bottom. Sansa struggled to make out the name at first, but her mouth went dry once she did — Petyr.

Somehow she couldn't see him doing something as juvenile as this at his age, and given the obvious wear and tear upon the designs, they had to be twenty years old. Maybe older. 

This entire time, Sansa thought that Petyr had just brought her to some random hideout, but no. He brought her to his home — his childhood home. He couldn't have been more than a teenager when these were done. It was sobering. He could have taken her anywhere. Why bring her here? To show her the depths of the poverty he emerged from? Was it his way of gloating? No. If it were that, he would have said something. This was the place Petyr spent his life trying to escape — his vulnerable point. Sansa tried to make sense of it.

Stories flew in King's Landing, about the man who rose from nothing. She’d heard them. Hushed whispers regarding the boy from nowhere that built an empire by scraping and bowing at the feet of the preeminent families, making himself indispensable. Ingratiating himself so deeply within the power, that the city could hardly run without his guidance. Sansa often wondered at that last point. Petyr had power — _real power_ — and nobody, none of the other families, not even the Lannisters, felt the need to check him for it. Perhaps it was their own hubris, that one man posed no genuine threat. That arrogance would be their downfall. 

The gurgling of Sansa's stomach brought her back to the present. It must be later than she thought. She worked her way back out towards the entrance, her fingers caressing the white feathers of a mockingbird as she crossed the threshold.

Petyr returned to her that night, waking her with a brush of his knuckles along her cheekbone. Sansa startled from the unexpected touch, only seeing his darkened visage above her, her heart racing. 

“It’s just me,” he whispered. 

Sansa moved away from him, sitting up to flip the lamp on. “What time is it?”

“Just after one.”

“You couldn't wait until a decent hour to wake me,” she chided, irritation evident. 

“I have news. I thought you might be interested,” Petyr said, smugness tugging one corner of his mouth up, as he laid a file in her lap. “I'll need to destroy that when you've looked your fill.”

Sansa furrowed her brow in confusion until her brain registered the first image contained within. Adrenaline was flowing, her heart a rapid thunk beneath her ribs, and she sat up on her knees, laying out the pictures one by one across the bed. 

“He’s dead.”

“The first of many,” Petyr confirmed, rising to discard his coat, pulling the tie from around his neck. 

The cold, lifeless eyes of Joffrey Baratheon — tormentor, murderer — stared back from the pages. Trails of blood leaking from his nose, his mouth, his eyes. A look of pure agony and fear on his purpling face.

“How?” Sansa asked. 

“Poison,” he answered. “It's seems Olenna Tyrell wasn't too keen on Margaery’s impending match once she spied the bruises Joffrey left on her wrists and arms. It didn’t take much to convince her to aid our plans.”

Sansa studied his face. He was tired from the drive, but the lines of age around his eyes seemed more relaxed than when last she saw him. Petyr was proud, she realized. Proud of murdering a monster, but didn't that make him a monster, too?

Petyr towered over her. His hand snaked out, teasing along her collarbone until it wrapped around her neck. Thumb trailing the column of her throat until it rested just below her chin. His eyes were obsidian, not a trace of their usual color present. “It's time to renegotiate, sweetling.”

Petyr bent forward, intent on kissing her, and Sansa turned away at the last second. She was still angry with him for the way he left, the way he kept her in the dark, and then presented her a dead boy like a cat might a mouse. He grazed her cheek, then growled. His fingers tightened around her chin, forcing her to look at him. The muscle in his jaw twitched. “Kiss me.”

“No.” She grabbed his wrist, jerked her head from his grasp. Blue flashed hotly, face stern. “It’s late. I’m not in the mood to play your sick games.”

“My sick games?” Petyr yanked his arm free, paced back a step. “As I recall, you're the one who set the rules.”

Sansa's lids clenched tight as she was assaulted with the truth. _Own it._ “You're right. I did set the rules. And I'm saying no.”

Fingers raked through his hair as he whirled around, kicking an errant piece of clothing on the floor. He took a deep calming breath before he looked at her again. “I've done what you asked. Placed the first nail in the Lannisters’ coffin, and now you're reneging?” 

Arms wrapped around herself as she braced against the headboard, a scowl painting her expression. 

Petyr must have seen something there. “This isn't about our deal. You're mad at me,” he accused. 

“You left.” Sansa sat up, anger contorting her features. “You didn't even leave a note, Petyr! I was alone out here with no idea where you were or what you were doing.” The next words slid off her tongue before she could stop them. “What if something happened to you?!” 

His eyes crinkled as an incredulous grin lit up his face. “You were worried about me.”

“No,” she barked immediately, scrambling to get on her knees. “I- I-,” she swallowed down the acrid taste of discovery. “What would happen to me if they had killed you?”

“You're a poor liar, sweetling,” Petyr stated as his palms trailed over her shoulders. Sansa shuddered as his breath tickled her neck, resentment slowly melting under his touch. “You missed me.”

“If I missed you,” she argued petulantly, “it's only because you've had me sequestered out here alone. Caged up like a bird.”

There was a dry press against her her neck. “And what a lovely bird you are with your ruffled feathers.”

They tumbled back into the bed. The photos beneath them forgotten even as they rustled and stuck to the exposed skin of Sansa's back, where Petyr's eager hands lifted her top to tease flesh. Her mind was temporarily lost, the days old stubble on his face rubbing red, raw marks wherever his lips traveled along her neck fueling a ravenous hunger that built low. God, he felt so _good_. When his mouth moved to claim hers, she almost succumbed, only coming to her senses when she felt his triumphant smile against her cheek. 

She couldn't let him win this easy. 

His shoulders were pushed back, and that smug face disappeared. Petyr's eyes narrowed in confusion as he looked down at her, arms suspending him. 

“No kissing,” Sansa informed him. “I'm still mad at you.”

“Not on the mouth?” he asked, a mischievous glint to his gaze. 

She nodded in the affirmative even as smooth red muscle ran along his bottom lip enticingly. It was almost enough to make her resolve falter, but not quite. 

Petyr purred as his body descended. “So,” warm lips found her clavicle, “that means I can still kiss you elsewhere, yes?”

“I-” One of his hands stroked up the outside of her thigh, a delicious drag that made her mind go blank. Her back arched into him. “Yes.” It was more moan than word, and she felt his lips curl against her skin, the drag of his teeth as he inched lower to trap her nipple between them. 

Nails combed over his scalp, helping to guide the attentions of his mouth. He suckled each tip to stiff peaks, his hands torturing whichever his tongue could not, and when they both glowed a vibrant red from his efforts he moved lower. 

Sansa thought her heart would escape her chest. It hammered beneath her breasts, clawing panting breaths from her lungs. This was so dirty. So very wrong. This man had all but admitted to letting her father walk to his doom, and here she was allowing him to take liberties with her body. It was twisted, but it felt _amazing_. 

Petyr’s hand ripped off the fabric that covered her, his impatience showing, mask cracking against the onslaught of his lust. And when his mouth descended into the downy auburn thatch, tongue divining her pleasure, Sansa gasped. He ate her out like a hellbent god. Wet muscle darting feverishly between the folds of her sex, lapping up every drop of her arousal. Mouth and teeth sucking and nipping along her clit, the swollen lips of her sex as his fingers dived into her silken sheath, pressing and massaging torturously into that patch of rough wall that hid just behind the pelvic bone. 

_Fuck_.

Sansa didn't want to know where he learned to do this so well. A light was already pressing behind her eyes, and her hips ground against his skilled tongue. The end was close, so close. She could feel as every muscle in her body tensed near the precipice. Then, she was there, tipping over the edge. A curse found its way to her lips, eyes rolling back in her head as if she were under some sort of demonic possession. Petyr's head was trapped between her thighs, and she thought her nails may have drawn blood. 

It was his name Sansa cried as she came — the monster that served her. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, they basically just fucked over Joffrey's dead body. You're welcome. <3


	5. Chapter 5

A blissful ache permeated Sansa’s body when she woke the next morning. She stretched into it — arms and legs akimbo — every muscle a singing reminder of the previous night’s escapade. She didn't fight back the little grin graced her mouth. Top teeth worried her lip and pink dabbed the apples of her cheeks as she recalled the artistry of Petyr's considerable efforts. She had half a mind to repay them, but when the haze of sleep cleared, she kicked herself.

_This is a business arrangement. Pull yourself together. Idiot._

Sansa should be disgusted with herself, using her body as payment for revenge and safety, but it was all she had. The only leverage she could use against a man with few weaknesses. His apparent desire for her the only crack she'd ever been privy to in the years of frequenting his club on Joffrey's arm.

That damned club. She wished she’d never heard of it. It was the center of depravity and debauchery, and it was a miracle they let her sixteen year old self in at all. She thought it was because of Joffrey's influence, maybe her family's station in the city, but looking back she understood. Petyr wanted her there. Wanted unfettered access to her for his own twisted reasons. Their first one on one meeting should have been a clue. 

* * *

_The pill was snatched from her hand before Sansa had time to open the baggie. “Hey!” she cried, only to see a piercing set of leaden eyes looming over her in the mirror. Her mouth gaped. “Mr. Baelish? What are you doing in the ladies room?”_

_The man ignored her question, and posed his own. “Do you know what this is, Miss Stark?” Petyr's face held the expression of exasperated disappointment as he held the little packet aloft between index and middle for her assessment._

_“Well, no, but Joffrey…” Sansa realized how naive she sounded, and shied away, lips thinned._

_Petyr pulled her away from the sink, fingers cupping her chin, forcing her to see his face. “It's ecstasy.”_

_“So?” Petulant. “What do you care?” Her arms crossed, shoulders straightened. “Joffrey said it would loosen me up. I'm just trying to have a little fun is all.”_

_“Joffrey said,” Petyr scoffed. “Yes, I'm sure Joffrey is the pinnacle of good intentions.” He stepped closer, and Sansa noticed as his eyes darted to her cleavage and up again. Petyr's voice softened. “Your mother would kill you if she found out you were using, and she'd kill me for letting you.”_

_A little thrill crawled under her skin at a grown man noticing her in that way. Maybe she could work it to her advantage the way she had seen Cersei do, time and again. Practicing her feminine wiles certainly couldn't hurt._

_Sansa bit her lip and leaned into him. “Who’s going to tell her? You?” Her finger traced the edge of his lapel, over the silver mockingbird he wore. She looked at him through her lashes, and saw as his breath hitched. “Couldn't we just let this be our secret?” she asked, head tilted, playing the coquette._

_Sansa thought, for just a split second, as his nostrils flared and his eyes grew dark, that she might have won. Her victory, however, was short lived as he removed her hand from his chest with a fierce grip, thumb digging painfully at her pulse._

_He backed her against the wall. “You can stop that right now, Miss Stark.”_

_Drat._

_Sansa feigned innocence. “What?”_

_“What she says.” A chuckle reverberated in her ear. “While your offerings,” he said the word with a leering rake of her form, “are extraordinarily tempting, I don't think you're quite up to task for that game. A bit young,” he jeered, face annoyingly smug._

_The blow stung. “I'm not that young,” she argued._

_“I'm old enough to be your father,” Petyr pointed out._

_“But you aren't, are you?” Her brow arched. A challenge._

_Petyr's eyes narrowed, and one hand found the back of her neck, thumb brushing the skin beneath her jaw. Sansa shivered under this new connection, her hands braced against his chest, as his other released her wrist, drew her into him by her hip. One step forward and she was pinned to the cold tiled wall of the ladies room. Her heart raced. He wouldn't. Would he?_

_“No,” he growled. “I am not your father. And thank fucking god for that.”_

_His head descended, and Sansa gasped, closing her eyes automatically, chin lifting in expectation. Seconds passed. Nothing. Her eyes eked open. The big bad wolf looked ready to eat Little Red._

_His mouth hovered, barely brushing the corner of her own. The mint on his breath tickled her lips, and Sansa turned away, nervously licked at them. Her fists bunched at his shoulders, and her brain was caught between pushing him away or pulling him closer. The persistent thrum beneath her ribs stealing oxygen from her lungs._

_“Be careful about who you choose to emulate, my girl. Someone less… honorable,” it was said with haughty sneer, “might take advantage of your inexperience.” He placed a dry peck to the corner of her mouth._

_The scoundrel’s eyes gleamed amusement, as he freed himself from her clenched fists, leaving her to stand slack, red-faced against the wall. “While this little diversion has been enlightening, do try to avoid young Baratheon’s influence in the future. I won't go so easy on you next time.”_

_“There won't be a next time,” Sansa called out to him as he strolled away, hands tucked in pockets._

_A devious smirk filled his voice, as he said over his shoulder. “Won’t there?”_

* * *

Sansa realized then what his game was. A smart person would have avoided his club, avoided him. They wouldn't have sought him out. They certainly wouldn't have taunted him with what he couldn't have. But if she hadn't, she and her entire family would be dead now. It was a double-edged sword. 

The sound of plastic rustling and doors slamming broke her dark contemplation. Sansa begrudgingly rose from the bed. 

The overlarge shirt she slept in was pulled down, and she didn't bother covering her lower half with pants (no point feigning modesty), and opened the door to the living area. Petyr was clearing out the cupboards. He turned at the sound of the hinges creaking, his eyes raking over her, not attempting to disguise his appreciation at her rumpled state. 

“Good. You're up.” The trash bag in his hand was forgotten as she came to lean up on the counter, making sure to give him a view of her breasts as they were pushed up tight from her forearms resting beneath. 

“I'm up,” she echoed. “Are you going to tell me why you're ransacking the kitchen?”

Petyr retrieved a small box from the counter behind him, and set it in front of her. “We’re leaving just as soon as you’re ready.”

She lifted it from where it sat, looking unimpressed with what she found. “Hair dye?”

“Yes,” he confirmed. “With Joffrey dead, Tywin and Cersei are flailing. The organization is in chaos. Now’s the time to smuggle you back in.” Petyr rounded the counter to stand next to her, so close she could smell the mint on his breath. “Though I will hate to see you lose your fire, it'll be easier to get you there with a more mundane shade.” His digits combed through said fire as a thoughtful look shone in his eyes. His knuckles tickled the edges of her throat, over the dulcet hammer of her pulse before his arm dropped. 

“So what? Do I pretend to be one of your girls now?”

“Nothing quite that scandalous.” He slapped her ass. “Now go get ready. I want to be on the road in an hour.”

“Fine,” she said. Pausing in the doorway to the bedroom, “But Petyr, you're keeping secrets from me. I expect to be filled in once we get to the city.”

The only acknowledgement she received was a pursing of his lips and a slight nod.

Another road trip. Sansa sighed in her seat. The radio had played the same top forty tracks for days on end. If she had to hear one more song about some twee twenty-something's heart ache she would scream, but King’s Landing came into view with its towering skyscrapers, and she felt her ire melt, replaced with anxiety. They didn't stop in the city, even as the gas light ticked on. Petyr assured her it wasn't much further, and within minutes, a gated community of mansions flanking the bay sprung before them. 

Petyr pulled up to the security station, and Sansa sank into her seat. The Lannisters had a payroll and the guard could very well be on it. If Petyr was worried, he didn't let on. 

“Mr. Baelish,” the man greeted. “How are you this fine day, sir?”

Petyr wore his most affable smile. “Excellent, Oswell. How’s the family?”

“They're doing what boys do. Getting into trouble.” They both chuckled, and Petyr inquired about the rambunctious trio. Sansa tried not to roll her eyes at this typical male bonding, and zoned out of the conversation. 

“And who’s your guest?” That perked Sansa's ears. 

“Of course, how rude of me.” Petyr was all apologies — a state she’d never witnessed, even when he was sparing with family heads. “Oswell, this is Alayne Stone.” Sansa leaned forward to give a little nod in greeting, when the bastard added, “My daughter.” She almost choked on her own tongue, but held a timid smile for the stranger, as she plotted the revenge she’d seek on Petyr later. The gall of the man!

“It's nice to meet you, Miss Stone. I hope you enjoy your stay.” The guard smiled. 

She leaned forward over Petyr’s lap, her nails digging where she braced her hand on his thigh. “Thank you so much. I'm really looking forward to some time with my _daddy_.” She gave him the most saccharine smile, before looking at Petyr. 

Everything in his eyes told her she would pay for that. How she’d pay was in question, however. 

Petyr snatched her visitor’s pass from the security agent, his jaw visibly tense as they drove through the gate. Silence pursued them until he pulled into the garage, at which time, he clasped her chin until she met his eyes. “And what, pray tell, was that?”

“What was what? Your loving daughter can't dote on her _daddy_?” His eyes burned hotly, and she slapped his hand away. “How could you? Your daughter? Really?”

“I don’t have any family, Sansa. If I said you were a niece, it would be a dead giveaway. A girlfriend — too obvious. But with my reputation, no one will question an illegitimate daughter.”

Her nostrils flared as she weighed his excuse. Petyr was right, and she couldn't fault his logic. “A little warning next time. Don't spring this shit on me.”

“Deal.”

They gathered their belongings, and he ushered her into the house. Sansa bit her lip as she took in the splendor of his home. It was almost as big as Winterfell, but it was cold by comparison. There it was all dark, rustic tones, cozy plush seating, family heirlooms on display. Here it was white walls, sharp edges, modern furniture — antiseptic. She wondered at the fact that he’d have such a sizable home, then chided herself in the same thought. It was a status symbol, of course. Everything about him, from his designer clothing, his expensive car, to the home he lived in was one giant middle finger to a society that tried to keep him down. It was admirable in a way, if a bit vain. 

Petyr showed her up the stairs to the guest room. She was somewhat surprised, given their state of intimacy, that he respected her enough to allow her to have her own space. 

He opened the closet, and contained within was an assortment of different clothes and shoes. “I hope you don't mind. I gave my assistant your measurements and had her stock your wardrobe.”

Sansa fingered the material of one of the dresses. “And how do you know my measurements?” she asked with a tilt to her head. 

A wicked smirk danced on his mouth, and his brows popped as if it were a foregone conclusion. “This is a full suite. Bathroom is through the door behind me. It should be stocked with the essentials. Feel free to freshen up.” He stepped in front of her. “The house is yours to enjoy, go anywhere you like.” He wrapped a brown lock around his fingers. “However, I must ask you not to step outside. Until I’m certain you haven't been noticed, you're relegated to the house only, unless escorted by me. Understood?”

“That’s reasonable,” and she couldn't help adding a cheeky, “ _Daddy_.”

Petyr growled and his fingers tangled in her hair, yanking it as he brought his face to her ear. “You should watch that mouth before I put it to better use.”

“Is that a promise? Or a threat?” she teased.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now we've hit the dreaded 'daddy' point of this story. I do hope it's clear that it's all tongue-in-cheek. ;)


	6. Chapter 6

“How do you feel about Tyrion Lannister?”

Sansa dropped the fork she was using to see Petyr reclining against the kitchen archway, arms crossed, a crooked smile on his face. “He’s a Lannister, but not bad company. He tried to protect me from the worst of Joffrey's temper when no one else would.”

Petyr hummed. “Unfortunate. It seems he’s been arrested for Joffrey's murder.”

“What?” Sansa set her plate aside and turned in her seat to face him fully. “You can't let him go down for that.” 

“Why not?” he said pushing off the wall to walk toward her. “So long as Cersei and Tywin’s eyes are on him, we’re in the clear.”

“But he isn't guilty!” she argued. 

“Maybe not for Joffrey.” He popped a piece of pear into his mouth. “But I assure you, the dwarf has his fair share of sins.”

Sansa felt her face burn as her outrage increased. “He’ll fry for this. You know he will.” Tywin and Cersei's disdain for the youngest Lannister went unsaid.

“Very probable, yes.” He was so annoyingly cavalier, talking about an innocent man's death. It was a grim reminder of just what type of man she was dealing with. 

While she wouldn't go so far as to say Tyrion was a friend, he was certainly the least deplorable Lannister. There had to be a way to save him. 

“Petyr.” The use of his given was enough to garner his interest, and his eyebrows shot up. Leaving her chair, Sansa stood toe to toe with him, fingers toying with the top button of his shirt. “There is a way for us to get him out of this, isn't there?” 

His eyes grew heavy from her proximity. “It's not _impossible_ , but why would I want to?”

“Because it would please me.”

“Mmm,” he purred. “While I do like to make you happy, I fail to see how his freedom would benefit _me_.” His knuckles teased the column of her throat, swiped aside the bottle brown hair to reveal the pulse at her neck. 

She halted his fingers exploration, giving a wet kiss to the pad of his thumb. “I would be _extremely_ grateful.”

“Is that so?” He brushed the dampened digit over the pout of her lip. “How grateful?”

In answer, Sansa wrapped her lips around his thumb, laving the salt from his skin before sucking it. When a guttural moan escaped him, she knew Petyr was open to her proposition. As she retracted him from her mouth, she let her teeth rake over the sensitive pad and was pleased to see a slight quake radiate through his shoulders. 

To her shock, he countered, “It seems to me, we've already made this deal before.”

Of course. She was naive to think he’d fall to the simple promise of oral sex when he was well on his way to achieving that regardless. “Then, a new deal?”

“I'm listening,” he growled against her neck.

Sansa angled him into her abandoned chair, straddling his lap, poised to drive her point home over his half hardened cock. “Unlimited access.”

His hips involuntarily bucked beneath her, and her knees shook as he grazed that one sweet spot. “No more tit for tat? I can have you whenever I like?” His grip found her hips, fingers flexed there. 

Her hands traveled the length of his chest as she bit her lip, thinking. “The level of your _access_ will still be based on _progress_.” His belt was pulled free of his pants. She gave it a snap before throwing it to the floor. “But otherwise, yes, whenever you like.” She kissed the rapid pulse at his throat, pleased to see how well she affected him, and rocked her hips ever so slightly. 

“I suppose I could find a way to free your little imp,” he said, trying to find more friction. “It'll be risky. Would require throwing our hat in with a rather untrustworthy character.”

“Because you're so _unfailingly_ trustworthy,” Sansa tutted even as she unzipped his pants. 

“Where you're concerned? Y- yes,” he stuttered as her fingers wrapped around his length. 

Sansa hummed her derision. “So who is this mystery person?” she asked as she stroked over him agonizingly slow. 

He tilted her chin up from where she watched her work. His eyes clouded over with hunger as they met hers. “Varys.”

Her ministrations paused, and Petyr cursed. “The Spider? Are you sure that’s wise?” 

The Spider had no allegiance to anyone in Westeros. He was a man you called as a last resort. A man who could just as easily rat you out as side with you. 

He covered her hand with his own, a not so subtle reminder to continue, as he guided her to begin again. As her pace resumed, he breathed a sigh of relief. “Normally, I'd say no, but in this our interests are aligned. He has a soft spot for your little friend. If we offer our assistance, I believe it could be a mutually beneficial partnership.” Sansa watched as his body stiffened. He was getting close. 

She backed off his lap, releasing him, and his eyes blew wide. “Then I guess you’d better call him.” Sansa walked out of the room smiling ear to ear as she heard the table scrape across the floor, when Petyr knocked it in frustration.

* * *

Petyr came from behind her to slam the book in her lap closed. “Get dressed. We’re going to the club.”

Sansa looked over her shoulder at him. He looked tense, and she wondered if he didn't finish himself off after she left him unsated. Her brow arched. “Why?”

He tugged her hair until her head rested on the back of the sofa. His sharp features hovered above her. “We have a meeting.” He cupped her chin. “Wear something… accessible.” Fingers splayed over her throat, thumb pressing at her carotid. A position that most would find threatening felt oddly intimate as he stared into her eyes. 

She nodded and went to rise, but his hold tightened. “And Sansa, I let that little stunt of yours slide for now, but I will have my due.” Her vision went dizzy. Eyes closed, his grasp on her throat leaving her unable to speak as her heart thudded, signaling its need for more oxygen. When his grip disappeared, she took a deep, ragged breath. She swallowed down her temporary panic, and when her eyes opened, Petyr was gone. 

After such a dominant display, any sane person would be running as far and as fast as their legs could carry them, out of this house and with as much distance from that man as possible. They certainly would not be searching through their closet — through the clothes _he_ purchased — acquiescing to _his_ demands.

But Sansa was not that person. 

How perverse was it that the man who had stalked her, threatened her, used her was the only person that made her feel protected? She must be a special kind of broken. Then again, Petyr was broken, too, if rumors could be believed. Maybe that's why they fit. Two broken, jagged ends meeting in just the right way. If it weren't for his unyielding obsession, she would likely be dead now — the rest of her family as well. Perhaps that was why she never told her father about him — about their clandestine encounters at his club or the occasional tryst when he’d corner her at the Lannister compound. The game of cat and mouse they played; him always wanting more and she, taunting him with what he couldn’t have. He could have simply taken her — he was a powerful man with far reaching connections — but he never did. Always skirting the bounds of her consent, but never forcing. And as unnerving as they could be, Sansa enjoyed the way his eyes lingered on her, and she knew she would never be purposefully hurt under their steady gaze.

They entered the club through a side entrance that was invisible from the street view. It was under heavy guard, and Sansa wondered if it was for her benefit, or if this was Petyr’s modus operandi. 

It was a Saturday night, and the DJ was spinning the customary house music. The bass rattled the floor as the mindless patrons danced and writhed amid flashing lights, sweat pouring from their brows as whatever drugs most were likely on kicked in. It reminded her of the early days with Joffrey, and she had a difficult time hiding the moue of disgust that threatened to break out. How had _this_ lifestyle ever appealed to her?

Petyr’s arm tightened about her waist as he led her around the darkened edges of the dance floor, up and into his personal lounge on the third floor, overlooking the scene below from behind a one way mirror. The room was soundproofed from the obnoxious party music, and instead played a more subdued mix of jazz over the speakers. She’d never actually been in here before, though not for his lack of trying. She took a seat on a plush crushed velvet sofa — so deep purple that it appeared almost black — while he fetched drinks from his own personal bar in the corner.

A knock filtered through the ambient tones of a piano.

“Enter.”

The door opened to admit a bald, portly, somewhat effete man dressed in silks. A man clearly foreign to Westerosi soil. He looked so very unassuming, and Sansa couldn’t picture the person standing before them as being the dangerous threat about whom everyone whispered.

“Ah! My old friend. I’m glad you decided to come.” Petyr’s voice was smug.

“My curiosity was piqued,” Varys stated, as he eyed the strange woman in the room. “I did think this was to be a private meeting, however.”

“And so it is — between you, me,” he gestured to the sofa where Sansa sat crossed-legged, ”and Miss Stark.”

An expression of surprise crossed the man’s face. “Miss Stark?” He gave her a more thorough study as she inclined her head in greeting. “Yes. I see it now.” He approached, hand extended, and she allowed him to take her own. His tone was simperingly apologetic. “Can I just say that I am so very sorry for your loss, my dear. Ned Stark was a rare man, too honorable for this world.”

“Thank you, Mr. Varys. Your words are touching, but there are far more urgent matters to discuss this evening.”

“So I am to understand, though our mutual friend’s message was rather cryptic,” Varys said, suspiciously eyeing Petyr.

“Tyrion Lannister,” he put forward before taking a draw of whiskey from the tumbler in his hand.

The bald man pursed his lips. “What interest have you in him, Littlefinger?”

Petyr strode across the room to take a seat next to Sansa, and gestured for him to take the chair across from them. “I don't care what happens to the little toady, personally. Miss Stark on the other hand…”

Sansa interjected, “Tyrion is a friend, Mr. Varys, and while he is many things, a killer isn't one of them. I was hoping you would help me.”

The Spider settled back into his seat, hands braced on the arms of the chair, and his eyes narrowed. “Help you how?”

“You and I both know that his father and sister would just as soon let him die. Cersei is likely forging evidence as we speak. I hoped, as man with a reputation for doing the impossible, you might be up for a challenge.”

“Let us be clear.” He crossed his legs, and let a smirk cross his features. “You want me to break him out of a maximum security facility?”

“Yes,” Sansa answered without preamble.

“You do set your goals high.” Varys almost sounded impressed. “And why should I endeavor to help you with this?”

Petyr’s body faced into Sansa, his arm wrapping about her shoulders like a python, as an accusatory gaze fixed itself on the man opposite them. “Because if you don't, I'll spill the secret of your overseas interests. There’s more than one family that would just as soon see the Targaryens dead. If they discovered your involvement with their potential resurgence, well...” His hands splayed in resignation. 

An incredulous grin escaped the man. “I see. And here I thought this was to be a friendly meeting.”

“it's quite friendly on our end, I assure you.” Petyr mocked. 

“And what’s to stop me from turning you and Miss Stark here over to the Lannisters first?”

“Besides mutually assured destruction?” Petyr questioned with a raise of his brow. “Because when your dear friends cross the Narrow Sea, you're going to need support in the right houses. The Starks can be that for you. Once their family has been returned to rights, no one will question their allegiances.” 

Petyr’s fingers played with the hem of Sansa’s dress, teasing at the soft skin beneath, and she withheld a shiver. If Varys disapproved of his _friend’s_ lecherous display, he did not show it. Instead, he breathed heavily through his nose as he considered Petyr's words. “Fine. I'll help you extricate Tyrion, but not until after the verdict is rendered. The security is too tight at the moment. It'll be easier once their guard is down.”

“Excellent. I’ll need to meet with him prior to his expatriation.” This acknowledgment caught Sansa by surprise. Petyr had said nothing to her of meeting with Tyrion before now. However, she kept her face schooled to pleasantly unaffected.

“See him? That could be difficult to arrange. He hates you.”

“A fact of which I am aware, but he _will_ see me. I have information for him. Information that he will undoubtedly want to know.”

“Which is?” Varys inquired.

Petyr laughed. “Between Tyrion and myself. Does that Bugs Bunny shit ever _actually_ work?”

“You’d be surprised,” the man tutted with a grin. “I’ll run it by him, but I make no guarantees.”

“I’m quite sure that a man of your persuasion can make it happen.”

Varys hummed disapprovingly. “Well, as enlightening as this meeting has been, I am afraid I must get going. It seems I have plans to make, laws to subvert.”

“Indeed.” Petyr rose to see him out. “As always, it was a pleasure,” he said shaking Varys’s hand before opening the door.

“For you, perhaps,” Varys said wryly. Turning to Sansa, “It was lovely to meet you, Miss Stark. I do hope the next time it is on far more amiable terms.”

“Thank you, Mr. Varys. I look forward to working with you in the future.”

As soon as the door was closed, Sansa was out of her seat to question Petyr. “What do you want with Tyrion?”

Petyr grinned a devious grin, pulling her flush as one hand stroked the skin along her jaw. “It's a surprise.”

Sansa arched one fiery brow. 

“Do you trust me?” he asked against her cheek. 

She shook her head. “Not even a little.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please heed the updated tags.

Sansa freed herself from Petyr’s embrace to walk the room. “You can’t do this anymore. We agreed before we left the Fingers that you would let me in on your schemes, and you’ve been avoiding me up until this morning.”

Petyr nonchalantly placed his hands in his pockets, shrugging his shoulders. “I agreed to nothing of the sort.”

“What?!” Sansa stopped her pacing. “We agreed to hash out all these secrets plans you’re making and you-”

He shook his head and interrupted, “I acknowledged your demands, nothing more.”

Red. Everything was red. “You lying asshole!” Petyr caught her hand before it could make contact. Sansa was barely conscious of having raised it.

His voice took on a menacing edge. “ _Careful_. Petulance won’t serve you well in this.”

“What are you going to do? Punish me?” Sansa scoffed.

A devilish glint of interest flashed in his eyes, and Petyr jerked Sansa bodily against him. She squirmed as his grip tightened on her wrist. “Maybe that’s exactly what you need,” he growled. “Does _Daddy_ need to take you over his knee?”

The sick son of bitch was taunting her with her own words. “ _You wouldn’t dare_.”

A toothy, predatory grin — white gleaming in a face filled with malicious intent — spread wide. Challenge accepted.

Sansa was dragged across the room and over his knee before she had a chance to fight back. “Let me go!” She struggled against the strong arms that pinned her down.

“I don’t think so.” Her dress was hastily rucked up, and a warm hand caressed over the supple skin of her thighs. She failed to withhold the shudder that racked through her. “While Ned Stark may have been a capable father in some respects, it seems he failed entirely in the realm of _discipline_.” Her lacy knickers were yanked down with cutting force, and she faintly heard the snapping of thread before...

_Smack!_

A shocked gasp escaped her throat as the sudden sharp pain welled under her skin. It contrasted sweetly with the soft velvet of the sofa beneath her legs. The sensation rolled through her, muscles tensed, and she found herself incapable of moving, fighting, too surprised by his actions, by the feeling of his firm hand delivering the blow. Then, a slow buzz diffused in her blood, almost like relief, like pleasure.

“Insolent little girls get spanked, Miss Stark.”

She couldn’t keep her mouth shut at his scornful barb, frustration mounting at having lost control. “I’m not a little girl.”

An acute twinge rippled through her skull as Petyr jerked her head back by murky brown locks. Her throat held taut at an awkward angle, mouth agape, so he could snarl into her ear. “No, you’re not. But if you’re going to act like one, I’m going to treat you like one.”

“Screw you.”

His grasp tightened at her words, and another hit rained down in his fury. Then, another. Sansa cried out. Anguish and passion and anger co-mingling, until her mind and body warred. 

To run. 

To stay. 

One by one by one the strikes came, until tears left fiery trails down her cheeks, and her bottom felt raw. It could have been ten strikes. It could have been a hundred. By the end of his castigation, Sansa had no will left to fight, crumpled in his lap.

His hand — that instrument of divine torture — smoothed over her reddened flesh, soothing the hurt there, as the other combed gently through her hair where the scalp still stung from his fierce grip. Comfort and pain working in symbiosis, muddling her brain. Sansa was so confused. 

What just happened? _What did I allow to happen?_

As she lay prone, her thoughts torn, she barely took notice as his digits trailed between her thighs — not until his index swiped through her folds. It was only then, that she became aware of just how wet she was. How the smarting agony had brought with it another sensation so wholly opposite.

Petyr rubbed the proof of her arousal between thumb and forefinger, studying it with a keen eye. “My, my, Miss Stark. I do so enjoy when I’m _right_.” He was all self-satisfied smugness as he licked her essence from his fingers. “Exquisite.”

Her cunt throbbed, and watching him _taste_ of her caused an unintended whimper to pass her lips. The sound drew Petyr’s attention.

One wicked brow arched. “What was that, sweetling?” His fingers found themselves traveling between her swollen nether lips, teasing, but not touching where she wanted — nay — needed him.

Her brain was mush, caught somewhere between pleasure and the residual ache of his lashing. Every nerve receptor heightened to his manipulations. She managed to stutter out his name as her back arched into his touch.

A gentle, rolling pressure found her clit, and she mewled. “Is this what you want, Sansa? Tell me,” he commanded.

It was tortuous the way he grazed over her, applying only enough force to make her moan, but not enough to send her over. She found her tongue. “ _Please_. Petyr, _please_ ,” Sansa grovelled. The entire lower half of her body was inflamed, writhing, ready for release, only needing the slightest press to unleash a torrent of ecstasy.

Sansa saw his devilish purpose before his fingers removed themselves, and the whine that escaped her was undignified. 

“Now, now,” he mocked her discomfort. “After your nasty trick earlier, I think you can wait for a little while. Myself, however…” Petyr’s eyes narrowed cruelly. “Get on your knees.”

Sansa’s legs quaked as she scrambled off his lap, finding purchase between his legs. The hard floor was pitiless where it bit into her knees.

Petyr bent over her, hand perched behind her neck as he growled against her cheek, “You are going to suck my cock, Miss Stark. You are going to suck it, and swallow down everything I give you. And when you’re done, if…” His hand clamped tighter, sending a jolt of desire straight between her legs. “ _If_ I see a single drop of cum escaped that pretty little mouth, I will be very disappointed.” He reclined back, steely green measuring the degree of her understanding as they met her glazed blue. “Disappointment does not go _rewarded_. Is my meaning clear?”

Sansa nodded, dazed by his cold, ruthless disregard. A part of her hated herself for baiting him to this earlier. A darker part, however, thought maybe she should do it more often if this was his response — a display so primal that it made her question ever wanting the tall, blonde, princes of her youth. What was a prince to having a man so utterly sinful, so utterly dangerous, at her mercy?

And Petyr was at her mercy. Even as she sat in supplication at his feet, his cock in her hands — tasting him on her tongue — he was weak before her. Sansa heard it in each sound that escaped his lips as her tongue swiped over the ruddy purple head of his erection. The way his eyes clenched tight. The way his hips kicked. The tightening hold he had on her hair. It all made the pulse between her legs beat furiously. She wanted to reach down, play with herself until her own release could be found, but knew that even if he would let her, the undies still wrapped around her knees would prohibit proper access. So, she ground her legs together trying to gain just enough friction to keep the pitch and roll of arousal temporarily sated, enough to maintain her focus on him.

Petyr was mumbling something incoherent as her hand wound up and down. Foreskin sliding over vein and sinew as her mouth encompassed him, taking him deeper with each glide of her lips. Her saliva adding delicious lubrication to the movement of her hand.

Sansa studied him as she worked. The way he bit his lips to muffle the groans of pleasure she pulled from him. His nostrils flaring with each suppression. God forbid the man let her witness any vulnerability. Her cheeks hollowed as she pulled him from her mouth, unleashing an audible pop. His eyes shot open at her mouth’s unexpected release, meeting hers over the painfully stiff erection still in her hand.

“Petyr,” she cajoled, “Stop holding back. Let me hear you.” Her tongue trailed up a thick vein to lap at the precum at the tip, and he cursed. She fell back, let her head rest against his thigh as she stared up at him. “I _want_ to hear you. How am I supposed to please you if I can’t tell what you like?”

“My cock is hard in your hand, girl. And you’re seriously questioning what I like?” he grumbled, distressed by her abrupt halt.

“Mmm.” Sansa’s unoccupied hand came to fondle his balls. She gave them a gentle squeeze, and watched as he shuddered. “What about that?” Lick. “Do you like that?” she asked moistening swollen lips.

“It’s not bad,” he admitted between panting breaths.

She wrapped her lips around one testis, sucking on it like a juicy cherry as her hand continued to torture his length, sluicing the remaining saliva over him. 

Petyr hissed, his fingers tangling deeper into her hair. “Yes. That’s it, my girl. My good fucking girl,” he gritted out between clenched teeth. 

Sansa switched up, working the same magic over the other. His pelvis bucked, demanding attention elsewhere, and she slowly raked her teeth along the underside of his cock until he was a quivering mess. Her tongue swirled along his tip as his other hand worked itself into the brown atop her head. 

“Y-your mouth.” He swore. “I need your mouth.”

She opened, and his hips and hands worked in tandem, driving his cock deep. The effort so violent that it forced her to release her hands on him, and steady herself on his thighs. She could barely withhold her teeth from grazing his sensitive flesh, but if Petyr minded, the said nothing, lost to his own need. The sounds of slapping, sucking, gasping, moaning resounded. It was all so sordid. 

_Dirty_.

Sansa’s own desire was trickling down her leg. Her body humming, desperate for its own release. She felt as Petyr’s cocked swelled in her mouth. He was going to come soon, and if she wanted to get her reward, she needed to take back control. Her nails dug into him, and the pain was enough to bring him back. His pace slowed, and Sansa reoriented herself, vigorously sucking, using hands and mouth, until Petyr’s body was taut. A mangled moan wrenched from his throat. The way his body arched, cock finding the recesses of her throat as he thrust through his climax was an intoxicant.

Petyr only took a moment to catch his breath before he was pulling her up, ripping her underwear the rest of the way off, and situating her in his lap. She braced herself on his shoulders, her forehead resting against his, breathing his breath when she felt him. His cock was still hard, and it grazed against her sex. Sansa rocked over it again, feeling it glide between her folds before Petyr stopped her.

He hummed. “So greedy.” Fingers raked their way up under her dress, grasping the globes of her ass in each hand. “You know, I shouldn’t let you come.” His lips brushed over hers. “I should make you wait. Tie you up. Tease you until you _beg_ me to fuck you.” His hips rolled, and a faltering whine crossed her lips. “But… I did promise you a reward if you did well. And you did so very fucking well.” His tone was an unmistakable mixture of lust and pride.

“Petyr,” Sansa whimpered.

His name was the only plea she needed to get him to _move_. His grip guided her movement, nails biting brutally into the flesh of her bottom, as his own hips gyrated beneath her. And there it was. That flickering spark just on the horizon. With each slippery press of his cock against her swollen clit, the sensation grew, filling her. Starting from her center, and expanding outward into her limbs. 

Tremors. 

They started in her legs. Then up, up through her spine, her shoulders, her neck, reaching, reaching, reaching. A strangled cry filled the room. Was that her voice? Sansa wasn’t sure. She could only feel. Only see the black behind her lids. Then, she felt hands. And lips. And tongue. And she realized Petyr was kissing her. And she was kissing back. It was soft. Languorous. He cupped her face so tenderly she thought she might melt. And when she finally retreated, his eyes were an abyss — so dark, so deep. She could feel herself drowning.

Sansa was up in an instant, pulling down her dress, refusing to meet his gaze again. “We should get back.”

Petyr said nothing as she walked out the door.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please heed the new tag.

The sound of glass shattering awoke her.

Ever since the day that she and Petyr met with Varys, Sansa had been keeping her distance. Their new deal at a stand still until she had evidence that Tyrion was safe and far away from Westeros. It also gave her an added degree of separation. One she needed following their encounter _after_. The memory of his lips on hers — the longing she felt in that kiss, on both sides — left her feeling raw, exposed. So like many instances before it, she swept it away, refusing to deal.

Another crash reached her hearing. This one louder, the object larger as it rattled the walls. Sansa debated leaving it be — leaving him be — but some nagging curious part of her conscience made her itch to investigate. Her feet hit the chilly floor, and some shorts were thrown on before she wandered down the hall, following the sounds to their source. 

It was after midnight, but the light to his office was on — the door closed. She could hear the rumbling of Petyr’s voice, spitting venom, as he cursed at some poor soul within. Sansa raised her hand to knock, when the door opened suddenly. An older, hooked nosed man paused, averting his eyes quickly before stepping around her to leave. 

She watched the stranger go while taking a hesitant step over the threshold, “Petyr?”

When she finally cast her gaze his way, he looked distraught. He was sitting on a loveseat against the far side of the room, head buried, nails digging into his scalp. The chairs that normally sat in front of his desk, overturned; a massive crater pitted the wall opposite where Sansa assumed at least one had been thrown. The room reeked of alcohol, and Sansa saw the expensive crystal decanter that used to house bourbon, broken — glittering shards littered across the carpet.

At the sound of his name, Petyr lifted his head, his face drawn, the confidence in his eyes diminished. “Sansa.” Quietly said. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“What happened here?” Sansa asked as she examined the wreckage closer, taking careful steps in barefeet, avoiding the sharp glass scattered from his wrath.

“You should sit.”

Nothing good came after those words were spoken. The last time someone said them to her, she was informed her brother, Bran, had been paralyzed. It was enough to freeze her in place, to stare at him more openly, closely. “Tell me.”

Petyr looked up at her from beneath mussed hair, and shadowed eyes. His hands held between his legs, and his nostrils flared as if he was trying to put words to thoughts. Whatever it was, Sansa knew it was bad. Bad enough that it was affecting him, too. 

“There was… an incident.”

“An incident?” she repeated, tasting the words.

“Your brother, Robb, and your mother met with Walder Frey tonight. In secret,” he added forlornly. A hand rubbed down his jaw. “I only found out an hour ago. I-” A sigh. “There wasn’t enough time to stop it.”

Sansa’s heart — an erratic, frantic thing that wanted to burst through her ribs — choked her throat. She tried to swallow it down along with the bile that threatened. “Petyr,” her voice shook. “What happened?” She knew. She knew before the question passed her lips, but she needed confirmation.

He only shook his head solemnly. Her knees gave way, and Petyr leapt from his seat, not quite fast enough to catch her. The acute pain of the glass cutting into flesh was nothing compared to the anguish gripping her heart. 

_Dead_. 

They were dead.

Her vision rippled, light diffracting, blinding her until she couldn’t bear to keep her eyes open anymore. A ragged breath stole into her lungs just as she felt strong arms embrace her, trap her, and lift her from where she collapsed. Soothing movements, hands over her arms, her back, cradling her head, as words were quietly spoken: _It’ll be okay, You will survive this_ — and, disturbingly, something far more comforting — _We will kill them all_.

Blood for blood for blood. Is that the way the world would always be? If Petyr hadn’t helped her retaliate — if Joffrey weren’t dead — would this have still come to pass? _Yes_. She knew the answer even as the query formed in her mind. That’s the only way this _could_ end. Blood for the Lannisters. Blood for the Starks. There was no inbetween — no middle ground. 

Shoulders shook as the sadness consumed her. Sansa had allowed few tears to fall for her father. Repressed the heartbreak until the desire for vengeance clouded everything, but now… Now the dam broke, and she cried rivers. Cried until her eyes were swollen and her head ached. Cried until she felt hollow. Until the grief finally cast her into the darkness of oblivion.

When Sansa’s eyes opened, she found herself in an unfamiliar room — his room. Petyr’s warm body was beneath her. The sedate thrum in his chest matched her own rhythmic tattoo. His breathing was steady, and she thought he might have fallen asleep as well, but when she lifted her head to look at him, his eyes were open, vacant as he stared at the ceiling — almost as though he were looking through it. At her movement, his hand stroked along her back, her side. It was the only acknowledgment he gave that he knew she was awake.

She nestled her head back into his chest, accepting of the comfort, strange though it felt coming from him. “I’m head of my family now.”

“Yes.” It was barely more than a whisper.

“I need to know, Petyr. Was it quick?” _Did they suffer?_

His hand stilled. He didn’t respond. That, in itself, was an answer. Sansa blinked back the new tears that threatened, wiping the few that did escape away with the pad of her thumb.

“Bran? Rickon?” She sniffled.

His palm resumed it’s comforting strokes. “They weren’t with them. I’m not entirely sure where they are, but I’m assuming they’re still safely tucked away,” he assured.

Sansa nodded, relieved, but his disquiet was writ plain. His normal self-assurance etched only in memory. “I understand why I’m upset, but why are you?” she asked.

Petyr blinked. His head adjusted as his free hand came to rest behind his neck. “What makes you think I’m upset?”

“I saw your office.”

His hold tightened on her and she could feel his restraint, his muscles vibrating with the urge to crush her to him. However, his voice was carefully controlled. “Cat was a friend. She deserved better.”

Ah, yes. Somehow in the din of their acquaintance these last few weeks, Sansa had forgotten the pair grew up together. “You didn’t seem to care when it was my father,” she accused with not a little malice.

His fingers flexed against her waist. “I didn’t like your father.” 

_And he didn’t like you._ The retort was on the tip of her tongue, but she bit it back. Now wasn’t the time. “Did you mean it? Are we going to kill them?”

Petyr shifted, his head tipping down to rest at the top of her head. “Do you doubt me?”

“No. I guess I just-” Sansa propped up so she could meet his eyes fully. “What do you want for,” she hesitated, “ _that_?”

The hand that had been tracing mindless circles in her skin lifted to cup her face. There was a sadness to his eyes that she’d never seen before. “Nothing.” 

His uncharacteristically tender regard unnerved her, but she couldn’t stop herself from pushing into the warmth that held her cheek, closing her eyes. “Thank you.”

His hand dropped away, limply resuming its hold on her as he faced the ceiling once again. “Don’t thank me. Not for that. I don’t deserve it.” Petyr ruffled the already unruly hair on his head and sighed. “I heard from Varys while you were sleeping.”

That perked her ears up. “And?”

“Tyrion’s verdict is expected to be handed down this week.”

“So soon?” Sansa was baffled. She thought they’d have a month at least.

“Mmm.” Petyr’s fingers carded absentmindedly through the ends of her hair. “Without Tywin’s money, it seems he was unable to find representation amid the mounting evidence that Cersei provided. He made quite a scene in the courtroom from what I heard.”

That meant he would be broken out soon, leaving Westeros possibly forever. A thought beckoned. “I want to see him,” she proclaimed.

Petyr turned on his side.“Sans-”

“Don’t try to talk me out of it,” she said, fluffing a pillow to lie down and face him. “I’m head of my family now. I’ll go with or without your help.” She plopped her head down with a huff.

He edged closer, propping up on his elbow to hover over her. “Why do you want to see him?”

She raised an accusatory brow, meeting his gaze with defiance. “Why do you?”

Silence.

Petyr was never a forthright man, but she decided to argue her point regardless. “You may as well tell me. I’ll find out eventually.”

He bit the inside of his cheek, debating. “What do you know about the history between Tyrion and his father?”

Sansa’s brows furrowed. “Not much. Tywin blamed him for Joanna’s death. Resented him for being a dwarf.”

“Tip of the iceberg,” Petyr said. His index curled around a stray lock of her hair between them. He studied it as he asked, “Did you know that Tyrion was married?”

Sansa shook her head. “He never mentioned it.”

“No, I don’t suppose he would.” Petyr inched closer. “Her name was Tysha. Tywin didn’t approve of her. Too common, no connections. She and Tyrion eloped without his approval, and when he found out… Well, let’s just say the old lion bared his claws.” He adjusted clearly uncomfortable at what he was about to say. “When Tyrion was out one day, Tywin paid some of his worst retainers to abduct the poor hapless chit. Paid them to break her.”

“You mean…?” Sansa gulped.

“Yes. She was beaten — raped — until she stopped fighting back. When Tywin presented the scene to his son, it looked as though she was fully compliant with what was happening. He told Tyrion that it was proof that she was no better than a common whore.”

Her stomach rebelled for not the first time that evening. “My god.”

“The marriage was annulled shortly thereafter,” Petyr said.

Sansa shook her head, trying to erase the image from her mind. “How do you know all this?”

“Tywin sent her to me when he was done making his point. She was basically catatonic. I think he thought putting her to work in my brothel where she’d relive her trauma repeatedly would break her irreparably.” Disgust must have been apparent on her face because he quickly added, “I didn’t use her, obviously. Men want willing participants, not dead fish.”

“My god, Petyr,” she said, brows furrowed in revulsion as she pulled away.

His arm snaked around her before she could remove herself from the bed. Sansa tried to resist his efforts until he vehemently interjected, “I sent her to get help.” She examined his face for falsehood, and found none. “I’m many things — call me an asshole, a pimp, an upjumped piece of shit — but I’m not heartless. I wouldn’t know any of this if she hadn’t gotten well enough to tell me.”

Sansa laid in his arms, allowing him to hold her while she dug for more answers. “And why are you telling me?”

“Because Tyrion is going to kill him when he learns the truth,” Petyr said, nonplussed.

“Tyrion is not a killer,” Sansa argued.

“Not yet,” Petyr declared. “But when he finds out that his current fiancée has been sleeping with his father, informing him of all Tyrion’s actions...”

Her face screwed up. “Shae? She wouldn’t.”

“She has. Almost since the very beginning,” Petyr said. “She even testified against him in court. It’s one of the greatest ironies, that. Tyrion was made to believe his first wife was a whore, and his second actually would have been.”

“I just can’t believe it.” Sansa shook her head. “They always seemed so in love.”

He took her hand in his. “Love makes fools of even the smartest men.”

The declaration from him, the tender way he held her, formed knots in her stomach. “So your plan is to tell Tyrion and have him kill his father.”

“It’s one more name off your list. One more step to unseating the Lannisters,” Petyr said cavalierly.

She shirked out of his grasp and sat up, staring down at his relaxed form. “Why can’t we just kill them? Poison. A gun to the head. Why do we have to hurt Tyrion like this?”

“The same reason I helped Olenna kill Joffrey. So it doesn’t come back to bite us,” he explained. “Now, I’ve answered your question, what about mine?”

Sansa rose from his bed, pulled down the oversized shirt she wore, noting the dried blood still caked on her knees. She pretended to examine them closer, hoping that he wouldn’t be able to read her in the darkness. 

“I just want to say goodbye.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has been sitting completed for awhile, but I kept going back and forth about it because I changed up the story a bit, and it's likely going to be more than ten chapters now. 
> 
> C'est la vie. Guess I'm committed to the new trajectory now. :P


	9. Chapter 9

It’s time.

Petyr came to her earlier in the day, explaining the need to meet Tyrion in Lannister territory, under the lions’ noses. It was risky; a danger of which he was all too conscious. When he handed her a burner phone — something which he’d never allowed previously — Sansa knew the stakes were high. 

“I have one, too.” He whipped out its twin. “My number is programmed to one. My man’s is programmed to two. If something happens, if we get separated and I call you — assuming you haven’t been captured — I want you to answer with a safe word.”

_Lemonade_

“And if you don’t call?”

“If I don’t contact you within an hour, assume I’m dead.” It was said without hesitation, and that matter-of-fact tone he took sent a bolt of ice down her spine. He then proceeded to tell her how to access his emergency safe. If she wasn’t taking him serious before, he was making sure she did now. “Brune has instructions to get you out of the city if something happens to me. He’s never let me down before, but let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”

And now, here they were in windowless black van with a windshield tinted so dark she was certain it had to be illegal. They pulled up to an unremarkable warehouse that looked ready to be demolished. Even under the pitch of a moonless night, Sansa could make out the rust on the doors, the broken concrete surround, and the weeds that grew at its edges. It looked abandoned.

Except that it wasn’t.

Out front, Sansa saw the hooked nose man from the night she found out her mother and brother had been murdered — Lothor Brune, as she’d come to learn. He stood silent watch, occasionally humming some low instructions into the headset he wore. When they approached, he only nodded in acknowledgment.

“Is our guest inside?” Petyr’s voice sounded too loud in her ears. She couldn’t help but search the darkness around the building, synapses alight.

Brune’s rumbling baritone cut through, “Everything is secure, sir.”

“Are you ready to do this?” Petyr asked. He held her shoulders, and Sansa hoped that he didn’t feel her trembling beneath his fingers.

She forced herself to steady her nerves, and hold his eyes. The grey-green depths imbued her with a bit more confidence than she carried on her own. She gave barely a nod to his prodding, and a look of pride crossed his face. “Good, because you’re going in alone.”

“What? Me?!” Blind-sided again. This was not part of the plan.

“We need to get in and get out. You convinced me to give you five minutes alone with him, and that’s what you’ll have.” He produced an envelope out of his pocket. “But you need to give him this before you’re done.”

Sansa stared at the parcel he placed in her hands. She knew what it was. Or had a vague idea at the very least. Petyr — the man who trusted no one — was placing his trust in her. She wasn’t sure how to feel about that.

Petyr ushered her inside without time for her to reflect, and when the door slammed at her back, the hair on her neck prickled. There wasn’t much light — just the bit that streamed through the windows from the streetlamps. She took a careful step forward; then another as her eyes slowly adjusted to the dim. She heard nothing, and realized this was a far more dangerous position for Tyrion than it was for her. He was waiting.

She made her way over to a silvery beam of light, and stood stock still. “Tyrion?” she whispered.

The grating of gravel underfoot reached her ears. She could just make out a shape in the dark — compact but quick. “Sansa?” Tyrion’s voice was edged in confusion. She wondered if Varys left out her involvement in his escape.

When he came into view, he was holding a gun, and Sansa tamped down her instinct to panic. It was Tyrion. He wouldn’t harm her. Right?

“Where’s Littlefinger?” 

It became very evident suddenly, why Petyr had sent her inside. There was no love lost between these two. 

“Not here,” she replied, pleased that her voice didn’t crack. “He thought you might be more apt to listen to me.”

“Shame. And I had a gift all prepared for him.” He waved the ‘gift’ in the air above them before tucking it into the back of his trousers. “I know he’s the one who set me up.”

“He didn’t.” Sansa wasn’t sure why she felt compelled to defend him, but it came out before she could stop it. 

Tyrion studied her face in what little light they had. “Maybe not,” he finally admitted. “Maybe it was you. I can’t think of anyone who would have had as much to gain.”

Sansa bristled. “Neither of us set you up.” It wasn’t technically a lie. While Petyr may have helped Olenna to set up the poisoning, he had nothing to do with Tyrion being implicated. _As far as she knew_.

“So hiring Varys to break me out isn’t some crisis of conscience?” he tsked.

“No,” she blurted. Then, “Yes. But not because we set you up,” she was quick to defend. “I owed you.”

The little man looked surprised. “Owed me?”

“You helped me. When Joffrey…” Sansa trailed off, biting her lip.

Tyrion’s face softened. “I only did what any decent person should have done. Unfortunately, there seem to be a dearth of us in the Lannisters.”

“I know. Which is why I knew you were innocent.” Sansa sighed. “I couldn’t let you die.”

“While I appreciate your consideration, I do believe Littlefinger made promises about this meeting.”

The envelope tucked under her arm burned. Petyr may not have realized it, but he gave her just the leverage she needed. “He did,” Sansa conceded. “But there is something I need from you before I give it to you.”

_pop_

Both theirs heads swung to the door she had entered moments before.

_pop pop_

The crack and boom of gunfire. Sansa’s breath froze in her breast as a rapid succession of exchange continued. The heavy steel door grated open, and Tyrion drew his gun, ready to shoot.

“Time to go,” came a burly voice. She recognized it immediately as Brune. He was alone.

Tyrion made to aim at the lanky form that approached, but Sansa halted him with her hand midway. “Wait. I know him.” Turning back to Brune. “Where’s Petyr?”

“Busy. Said I’m to get you out.” He nodded at the armed dwarf. “Him, too.” 

Sansa only just gleamed the shotgun strapped to his back, and the pistols at his hip and shoulder strap. He was ready to blast his way out. “I’m not leaving without him.”

“Suit yourself.” The big man threw her over his shoulder and an undignified screech escaped her. To Tyrion he fired, “You coming or do I gotta carry you, too?”

“No, no. I’m much happier on the ground.” He half-bowed in that sometimes condescending manner of his. “Lead the way.”

Brune grunted, rushing on overloaded legs to a pile of carefully stacked crates at the back of the building — even as the girl in his arms struggled. “Let me down, you lumbering oaf.”

“If you insist,” he barked back, depositing her on her rump ungracefully. “Get in.”

 _Son of a bitch!_ “What?!”

Brune kicked a wooden chair to the side, revealing a small tunnel in the crates. “Get in,” he said with more force this time.

The gunfire outside still raged, but then another sound echoed in the warehouse. The sound of the metal door slamming hard into the walls, quickly followed by an abundance of footsteps, and whispered orders. 

Her protector pulled his pistol, gestured back to the hole _to get the fuck in_ , and that’s all Sansa needed to comply willingly. On hands and knees she traversed the tunnel to the end where she came up on an open sewer grate. _Wonderful_. She didn’t wait for instructions, climbing down the ladder, watching balefully from below as Tyrion followed — his short stature slowing his progress.

When Tyrion reached the bottom, the heavy figure of Brune barely paused before he slid down to join them.

Clipping a flashlight to his gun, Brune led the way out. The tunnels all looked the same to Sansa, and she hung close to him, knowing that if she got separated, she’d surely get lost. The entire time — as she stepped around trash and foulness that she was like never to forget — Sansa’s heart pounded. Why isn’t Petyr here? Was he already caught? She felt for the phone in her jacket pocket, pulling it out. No calls. Her gut knotted tighter. 

Tyrion caught her eye. His expression was thoughtful, questioning. She just shook her head. There was nothing she could say to him that would make him understand. She wasn’t entirely sure that she understood. She could run away now — clean out Petyr’s safe, and make a mad dash out of the country — but god help her, she’d become used to his smarmy fucking smile. _Goddamn the infuriating man!_ She wasn’t supposed to care about him. 

Up ahead, Sansa could just make out the tunnels end. 

“Almost out. Stay here while make sure the coast is clear.” 

Sansa and Tyrion watched in silence as the man advanced to the clearing.

The little man in front of her cleared his throat, signaling to the envelope Sansa held in a death grip. “Before we were so rudely interrupted, I believe you were going to say something.”

She gathered her courage, staring at the object in her hands. “I was,” she confirmed. “Do you still have your contacts in the North? Jeor? Yoren?” She swallowed. “Jon?”

His lips puckered, curiosity piqued. “I do.”

“I need a favor. Information. Someone betrayed my mother and brother, and I need to know who.”

Tyrion’s gaze softened. “Last I heard it was Walder Frey that killed them.”

She scoffed. “So the story goes, but I’m not stupid. Robb would never have met up with that old bastard unless he had assurances from someone. I need to know.”

“It’ll take time. I don’t dare touch my contacts until I’m out of this shit heap of a country.”

“Time, I’ve got. Will you do it?”

Tyrion looked the girl up and down. Ravaged by loss and betrayal, Sansa seemed so much older than she was. “You have my word, Sansa.”

“Thank you.” The sound of water sloshing brought both their heads to round and watch as Brune came back to get them.

“All clear,” he called a mere twenty feet away before turning back again.

Sansa tapped the envelope against her hand. “I guess this is yours now.”

Tyrion seemed to debate whether to open it now or not. He chose the latter. 

As they made their way out of the sewer, he asked, “Sansa, do you trust Baelish?”

 _Yes_ , but the answer stuck in her throat as if she was afraid to hear it aloud. Instead, she countered, “Do you trust Varys?”

“Fair point, but still…” He set his hand on her forearm, and they both stopped just short of the exit. “Be careful with him. He’s not a man known for altruistic tendencies. He’ll expect something for all the help he’s giving you.”

Sansa bristled before marching away. “I know exactly what he expects.”

Tyrion queried after her silently. “Do you?”


	10. Chapter 10

Stepping out of the fetid sewer and out into the clean night air was a relief. The cloudless sky twinkling above, the quiet hum of the breeze coming in off the Blackwater; Sansa no longer felt the claustrophobic press of grimey concrete walls or tasted the putrefied stench of its contents. She paused, closed her eyes to the surroundings, and allowed herself a moment. Just a moment to breathe — deep breaths to cleanse her lungs and calm frayed nerves. When she opened them again, she noticed that Tyrion stood at her side and a single black sedan dark against the landscape. 

A police officer emerged from behind the open trunk, and for a split second, Sansa felt her blood rush before recognition set in. It was Brune. He’d switched into a current issue police uniform while the unlikely fugitives took their time, wending their way through refuse to the exit. Spying the damp of his shoes, it was apparent, he had no such qualms about trekking through the muck.

Brune held the back door open, motioning them into the seat as his gaze searched the perimeter, and tossed them an oversized beige blanket with instructions to stay below the windowline and to cover themselves from sight. It was only once inside that Sansa saw the cage that separated the front from the back, the lack of door handles. A police cruiser. Their protector’s plan started making sense as it formed in her mind.

Tyrion didn’t seem quite as comfortable with their means of escape, even though the bigger man made no move to disarm him prior to trapping them inside. But as they lay side by side on the backseat, Sansa’s hand inadvertently brushed along his backside as she adjusted to the cramped space. “Miss Stark,” he admonished, casting a mockingly affronted glance over his shoulder at her, “I’m very flattered, but what kind of man do you take me for? At least buy me dinner first.” He wiggled away, and Sansa rolled her eyes.

How very _Tyrion_ to jape at the awkward situation in which they found themselves. “Oh? You mean you ingest more than alcohol these days? Prison must have been a good influence on you,” Sansa retorted sardonically.

“Touché.” An indulgent smirk played at the corner of his mouth. “If I didn’t know you better, that might have hurt my feelings.”

She gave him a friendly shove and the tension of the moment finally gave way; their faces breaking into exasperated grins. 

“You know, I don’t recall you having such a tart tongue,” he remarked.

“I’ve always had it.” Sansa shrugged her hair out of her face, the stiff cushion of the seat restricting her movement. “Just knew when not to use it.” She didn’t mention how she learned that lesson, but her hand inadvertently caressed the apple of her cheek regardless. She would sometimes wake up reeling to the slice of Joffrey’s knuckles as though it were a recent thing, and not the remnants of a nightmare. Although, she hadn't lately. Not since before Petyr stole her away.

The sound of plastic being stripped screeched in their ears, and the pair lifted their heads to observe. A series of dark films were peeled roughly from the car, Brune's arms straining with each harried pull. She had no doubt that he was revealing the necessary markings they’d need to speed through the city undeterred. Once the task was complete, the man flounced into the driver’s seat with a grunt. Door slammed.

His low baritone rumbled, “Any word?”

The phone was tangled in its nook inside her jacket, and Sansa struggled to free from between the space where she and Tyrion were pressed like sausages. The screen was bright in the darkness, causing her to wince as she unlocked it. Over forty-five minutes had passed since their sprint started — still no calls. Sansa shook her head forlornly. “Nothing yet.”

He grumbled something unintelligible as the car roared to life, and they began their descent back into the safer part of town. The static of the radio cracked when Brune flipped it on. The police channels reported a shootout, suspects on the move, ambulances and officers checking in as they arrived on the scene — seven reported dead so far. Peeking from under the edge of the blanket, Sansa could see as Brune’s jaw ticked with each new piece of information, and she gulped down her own trepidation. The rearview mirror was clear of obstacles, and it appeared they themselves were getting away without chase. Did that mean the police were after Petyr and his other men? _Seven dead_. Her already parched throat felt like the driest desert now.

Her lids scrunched tight, heart pumping fear through her veins with each mile they tread. She startled when the warmth of Tyrion’s hand encompassed her own, trying to offer what little comfort he could.

“It will be alright,” he murmured with a gentle squeeze. “We’ll get out of this in one piece.”

She tried to smile, even though he couldn't see her, even as his thoughtful words did nothing to assuage her own worries. It wasn’t so much _them_ that she was concerned about. Well, she was, but… She stared at the phone again, willing for a call to come through. Silence.

Their impromptu little ragtag band of allies eventually split; their car pulling into the loading dock of a now defunct strip mall. Tyrion escorted into a white plumbers van with a portly driver who looked suspiciously familiar beneath his beard. But before Tyrion exitted, he embraced Sansa in a bear hug. “You could come with me. I’d keep you safe,” he whispered.

A sad half-smile tipped up her cheeks at his urge to protect her. The Lannisters didn’t deserve him. “You know I can’t. But thanks for the offer," she said wistfully.

Sansa tried to pull back, but he only held her tighter to him. “A word of advice then: Take care with Baelish. He's far more dangerous than he seems.” He released her then, and made sure the others could hear, “I do hope you know what you’ve gotten yourself into, Sansa. And I pray you find the resolution you're looking for.” He pat her arm, and jumped down from the seat.

“Don’t be a stranger!” she called after him. He turned, tapped the envelope to his head in acknowledgment before ascending into the back of the other vehicle. He won’t forget his promise.

When their erstwhile conspirators drove away, Brune motioned her from the police cruiser as well, leading her to a crotch rocket that had been concealed beneath a flattened stack of cardboard boxes next to a dumpster. _Why the hell are all their modes of escape through or under rubbish? Ugh._ She was going to have words with Petyr over this. She'll rip him out of the Seven Hells if she has to. 

She prayed she wouldn't have to.

A helmet and a leather jacket were unceremoniously tossed her way. “Put that on quick. Tuck all that hair. Last thing we need is to be spotted in the home stretch.”

As Sansa complied, Brune ran back to the cruiser, re-affixing the excessive amount guns he removed for his disguise before donning his own safety gear, and picking up the bike, giving the engine a hearty rev. She hopped on without the need for direction, and together they tore through downtown King’s Landing; weaving through backstreets, avoiding the main thoroughfare where they could, until finally reaching the gated community that contained Petyr’s home.

The guard from before, Oswell, was on duty. Sansa stiffened in her seat. She hadn't thought to bring her visitor's pass, and wasn't sure how she'd explain the gruff, near forty year old, ex-marine looking motherfucker who was giving her a lift, but the man only tipped his hat at their approach, waved his own badge through the security scanner, and the gate opened without further issue. She spied over her shoulder at him as Brune guided them through, the growl of the bike rumbling at a subdued purr as they entered the neighborhood. Oswell ignored her interest, returning to his booth to reclaim his seat as if nothing had just happened.

 _He is one of Petyr’s then._ Sansa locked that information away for the future.

Brune examined his watch after they entered Petyr’s garage. Sansa immediately vacated her seat, her joints still rattling from their late night ride. “No word yet?” 

She checked her phone for what seemed the millionth time tonight. Nothing. Her sigh must have said it all. “You have fifteen minutes to pack what you need. I’ll get our wheels ready. Meet me by the curb, and don’t be late,” he barked, popping the kickstand and trotting off into the darkness.

Her chest constricted, vision a watery blur, at the realization that she may never see Petyr again. _Please don't be dead. Please pull that savior at the last minute shit that you love, you contrary son of a bitch._ She wiped the moisture from her eyes with the tips of her fingers before running into the house. She passed the door to her bedroom, bursting through Petyr's own. She knew exactly what to look for: his closet. His instructions ringing crystal in her head. _There is a keypad hidden in a panel on the right side of the shoe rack_. Her fingers fumbled, and she cursed that Petyr only told, but didn’t show. _Click!_ The compartment popped open, and slim digits input the code: 6468.

A puff of air, the sound of pressure popping, filled her ears as the far end of the closet swung wide. _That is_ not _a safe_. As she entered, she registered exactly what it was — a safe _room_. Monitors lined one wall; each camera strategically placed in every room, hers and his included. Her cheeks flamed, and she hoped against all hope that he held a modicum of chivalry and hadn't watched her... Well it's no use worrying over it now. _The dirty lech_.

She turned away, eyes continuing their scan of the room until she saw a few nondescript file cabinet. On top of them was a briefcase. Sansa made to grab it until the photographs pinned about caught her eye. It was her dad, and Arya, and _her_ among so many others.. There had to be a hundred pictures, all from the major crime families in the area. The Lannisters, Tyrells, Martells, Arryns, Baratheons; any family that had strings in King’s Landing were in the photos. Strings threaded between one photo and the next. Post its and paperwork detailing the inner workings of the city. 

_What the hell is this?_

A mad curiosity took root. Hands abandoned the object she came for, seeking out the drawers of the cabinet closest to the oddity before her. The first drawer was much the same: images, paperwork, a few handwritten notes. Then she came to the second: Starks, nothing but Starks. A near thirty year old newspaper clipping on her Uncle Brandon and grandfather after they were gunned down by Mad Aerys. Documentation of their land holdings, monetary reserves, even a list of their most recent shipment that came in prior to her father's death. Digging deeper, she found more images. Pictures of her father meeting with Cersei dated for the week he died. Arya during her fencing lessons from around the same time. Nothing of Robb or her mother or her little brothers. Only documentation of those Starks in King’s Landing. About half way into the drawer, she realized hadn't seen anymore photos of her. She sifted through the remainder, discovering nothing.

The third drawer was violently flung open. It was half way full, and she picked up the pages contained within. Every piece revealed a new image, but they were all of her: in her college courses, at his club, at the movies with Joffrey. She shuffled through them at a manic pace. 

_What the ever-loving-fuck!_

Sansa wasn't clueless. She knew that he watched her; that he had more than a passing interest in her since she came to King’s Landing with her father all those years ago, but this…

A reverberating thump and an accompanying groan broke her out of the thrall that held her, and she raced out of the room — anger simmering in her veins — to see the sight of Petyr collapsed in the floor. Blood. Blood coating his hands, the front of his shirt, the stricken look upon his face. Her righteous indignation over the contents of his safe room now replaced with concern. She felt the adrenaline spike, the sudden uptick of her heart, the way her lungs heaved for more and more air.

“ _Sansa_.” His voice held a softness that she’d never heard from him before. It was enough to get her moving. The pictures in her hand forgotten as they scattered across the floor in her dash to reach his side.

Her hands went to touch him, but stopped short, unsure where to place themselves. Hold his hands in comfort? Find and stem the flow of blood? But oh god, there was so much blood, and he was so pale. His eyes were listless, an unhealthy sheen of sweat coating his skin, and he was clearly struggling to maintain consciousness.

Her hands went to his face. “Petyr! Petyr, tell me what to do. I don’t know what to do!” He was slipping away. She shook him. “Look at me! Don’t you dare fucking die on me, you bastard!” Tears were slipping down her face.

His voice was a weak rasp. Dry. “Brune. Get Brune.” His head slunk to the side, eyes closed.

Sansa pressed a hasty kiss to his forehead, and she ran, following the trail of red that Petyr left behind him. She almost fell down the stairs in her haste to find the man, and crashed into him at the front entrance.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” His hands found her arms, noticing how his charge was clearly distressed. Then took in her appearance: the tears, the fresh blotches of blood on her hands and clothes. “Where is he?”

“Upstairs,” she panted.

His muddy brown eyes swept along the path of blood from the backdoor to the stairs, taking in the newly stained carpet before sprinting up them two and a time, Sansa following on his heels helplessly as he charged into Petyr’s room at a gallop.

“Fucking hell!” he cursed, kneeling at Petyr’s prone unconscious form. He tossed his phone at Sansa, then commenced rolling up his sleeves to assess the damage. “Dial three. Tell them it’s a code black emergency at primary residence.”

Sansa’s fingers trembled, unable to hit the single number. “Code black?” she asked him, looking for anything to distract her long enough to steady her hands.

Brune didn’t look up, his hands knotted into Petyr’s shirt, pressing on the gaping wound there. “It means he’s dead if we don’t get him on a surgical table. And soon.”


	11. Chapter 11

“Who is this? Where is Littlefinger?” Cersei’s voice over the line held an annoyed edge that still managed to carry the usual imperiousness that Sansa had come to know far too intimately during her time spent amongst the Lannisters.

Tone neutral. “He’s dead.”

“Well, that is unfortunate.” A beat. “Yet, that doesn’t answer who exactly you are, does it?”

“I’m his daughter — Alayne.”

“His daughter?” The sound of ice tinkling in glass reached through the line. “Ah, yes. I do have some vague recollection about you. His newly discovered bastard, right?”

“Not so new, though, I know he kept most in the dark about me until this last year.” Sansa paced, her gaze meeting that of Brune’s as he brooded over the laptop in the corner. He didn’t like this, but she was running the show now. “My father was not a trusting man. He played his cards close to his chest, but I’m in charge now.”

“Are you indeed?”

“I am. I’ve already taken control of my father’s assets, and I know why you’re calling. Tywin is dead.”

Sansa could almost see Cersei sit up in her mind. “How could you know that? I haven’t even reported it to the police yet.”

“I know, because I know who did it. I know who did it, because he killed my father, too.”

“Tyrion.”

“Yes. It seems your imp brother decided to clear house before he cleared the country.”

“That doesn’t explain how you know.”

“My father was a paranoid man, Ms. Lannister — eyes and ears everywhere. Footage has reached me that I think you’ll be very interested in.”

“And I should trust you why?”

“Because I know who helped him escape.” She nodded to her temporary right hand man. He hit enter with a sigh, and a look that told her he hoped she knew what she was doing. “Check your email.”

There was shuffling on the other end as Sansa waited. Her palms were sweaty, feet agitated, unable to still.

“That little bitch,” Cersei’s voiced growled. It was the dash cam footage from the police cruiser they took the previous evening. Brune had grabbed it with the intent to destroy, but Sansa put a stop to it as soon as it was understood Petyr would be out of commission, the plan already forming in her mind.

“Do I have your attention now?”

“What do you want?”

“The same thing you want — revenge for my father.” For Ned Stark. “We can help each other, I think. The Lannisters and my father had a good working relationship before all this, and I want assurances that that will continue now that I have taken over.”

A moment of silence as Cersei considered her words. “That is reasonable. _But_ I will need proof of your loyalty.”

“Of course.”

“I want you to bring me that bitch and my traitor brother — alive.”

“That’s hardly an imposition. I’ve already got my best trackers following their trail.”

“And we should meet. I like to look in someone’s eyes when I’m dealing with them”

_Too soon._ The lie rolled off her tongue quickly. “I’m in Yi Ti at the moment. We can arrange something as soon as I’m back in town.”

“Yi Ti?”

“Contract negotiations for father’s — well, mine now I suppose — latest business venture. Knock off couture. I can get you in on the ground floor if you’re interested.”

A half-snorted scoff. “I’ll pass.”

“Suit yourself.” Another nod to her man, and he knocked on the desk. “Sorry, Ms. Lannister, it seems my time is up. I’ll be in touch.” She didn’t wait for Cersei to respond, ending the call with the last word. The thought of how much that would annoy Cersei sending a little thrill through her.

“This is a bad idea, girl. Baelish would lock you away if he knew.”

Sansa merely scowled in his direction before he threw his hands up in surrender, and vacated his seat to step out of the room. She took up her place at the side of the bed, fingers combing back the sweat slicked hair of the man that lay prone on it. 

Petyr was still unconscious — an induced state. Her orders. After they’d managed to get him sewn up, get enough blood back in him, he’d awoken, screaming in pain. The adrenaline that had carried him from the scene where he’d almost been gutted and back to find her, gone. The sedation kept him comfortable, but it also meant Sansa had to make moves without him. It was both terrifying and electrifying to be given such control. She still had questions, but they could wait for now. 

It’s only been nine hours since the shootout; eight since Petyr came to her covered in his own blood. Watching him now, the rise and fall of his now marred and bandaged chest, the easy set of his face in sleep, she couldn’t help but think how beautiful he was — the long eyelashes, the fine straight nose, the ever so kissable lips. You’d never know what a calculating son of a bitch he was was in his waking hours. The surgeon said it was a miracle he survived. By all rights, the slice that tore at his insides and ripped him navel to neck should have killed him, but he was a survivor, like she was survivor. There was still a slight fever that tinged his cheeks, but the doctor assured her it was normal. The more rest he got, the better. 

There was a knock at the door. She turned somewhat dazed to look at the clock. How many hours had passed since she’d talked with the Lannister matriarch? More than she’d realized. “Yes?” she finally called out.

Brune peeked in. “My boys cleared out his safe room like you asked. The boxes are waiting in the office. Also, got the candidate you wanted from his staff.”

“Thank you. See her to the den. I’ll be out in a minute.”

He nodded; the door clicked shut behind him. She sighed, giving one last look over the sleeping man. “I don’t know exactly what your plan was Petyr, but I’m going to finish what we started.” A gentle squeeze to his hand and she walked out, a new path before her. A new plan in place.

She was still figuring out the layout to this new location. Once Petyr was stabilized, Brune had them all relocated to a safe house just outside the city. It was in the suburbs. Quiet. Unassuming. The entire basement was it’s own little apartment. Only this apartment was filled with medical equipment and supplies, had its own filtering HVAC unit to debride the air, and a staff to provide care. She had thought his own home antiseptic, but this was infinitely more so. A hidden hospital complete with fluorescent lighting. There were no windows. It was claustrophobic and held that discomfiting sterile smell, but it was secure and that’s all that mattered.

She entered a small living area at the opposite end of the floor, to see a redhead sitting at the edge of high back winged chair, though she shot up at Sansa’s entrance, her fingers twisting nervously at her waist. Sansa smiled, trying to reassure. “Please, sit. There’s nothing to be nervous about. You aren’t in any trouble.”

The woman took an audible, shaky breath, and Sansa took the opportunity to observe her. She was perhaps an inch or two shorter than herself, her hips a bit curvier, but with her hair a shade or two more vibrant and a pair of sunglasses, a hat, a scarf, it’d be easy to confuse the two of them on the street. Yes, she would do nicely.

“Would you like some water?” Sansa asked as she poured herself glass.

“Please,” then added quickly, “if it’s not an inconvenience.”

The second glass filled, Sansa approached, placing it in the woman’s trembling hands and taking the seat opposite. “I’m sorry for bringing you out here without any warning. I instructed the men to be respectful. Well, as respectful as they can be dragging someone from their bed in the middle of the night. Your name is Ros, right?”

The woman confirmed her assertion with a dip of her head. “I am. And I’m used to things being… _unconventional_ given who I work for. I just I don’t know why I’m here.”

“A fair question. Your boss, Mr. Baelish, has a special task for you.” A sip. A smile. “Are you fond of travelling?”

“I couldn’t say. I’ve never really had the money to go any where before.” She half-smiled.

“Well, no time like the present to find out.” Sansa rose, reached for a letter-sized box at the top of the nearest bookshelf. “He needs you to head to Essos, and once there make yourself visible, using this identification.”

Passports, credit cards, state identification all found its way into her hands. The woman looked them over in confusion before alarm filled her eyes. “Sansa Stark? Y- You want me to pretend to be Sansa Stark. B- But the Lannisters-”

“Want me dead. I know.” Ros’s eyes widened as she fully recognized who sat before her. Sansa reached over, holding her hand. “This is all for show. I- _We_ need the the Lannisters to think I am somewhere other than King’s Landing. You will be perfectly safe. I guarantee it.” It was a sweet lie, but some lies were love. “You’ll be monitored and guarded round the clock, and you can spend as much as you want, go wherever you want. I just need videos and images and paper trails proving that I am anywhere but here.

“You can say no,” then pressed the underlying threat, “but I know it would disappoint Mr. Baelish.” Sansa hated to use fear to motivate people, but she needed Ros to do this. There was no other way.

Ros licked her lips as she processed what she was being asked to do. “I- You promise that no harm will come to me?”

Sansa met her eyes, unflinching. “I promise.” Another falsehood to blacken her heart.

“Then,” Ros swallowed, “then, of course. I’m more than happy to help you and Mr. Baelish with this. When do you need me to go?”

“Right now.”

* * *

”The flight just took off.”

“She give you any problems?” Sansa asked, knowing full well the answer.

“Nah. Went to slaughter like a nice little cow.”

Sansa looked at him, eyes hard. “She can’t die before the job is done. You were clear with your men on that, I hope.”

“Don’t get your knickers in a twist. They’ll get her halfway to the Jade Sea before they end her.”

A grimace. “I wish we didn’t have to.”

“You know why we have to. She’s got Lannister ties. Can’t trust she won’t blab to them for more money. It’s the way of things when you’re dealing with prozzies.”

“I wish you wouldn’t use that word.”

“Fine, then Miss High and Mighty. Sex worker. Lady of the Night. Don’t change what she is though, does it?”

Sansa rolled her eyes, groaned in revulsion. She preferred the strong, clipped toned man of last night to this. “Just get out.”

When the door was shut tight once again, Sansa continued what she’d been doing — running a cool damp cloth over Petyr’s head, neck, careful as she traversed around the IV in his arm and the bandages on his chest, rinsing away the dry sheen of sweat that coated him. The nurse could do this, but for whatever reason, it seemed wrong to let anyone see Petyr so vulnerable. To let anyone’s hands know him more intimately than her own.

The cloth was refreshed in the water once more. The sheet that hid his lower body from view pulled lower. The tepid water beading as she pulled it across his stomach, along the grain of salt and pepper hair that led the trail down. A muscle tensed, a low grumble. Blue eyes met mossy pools. 

Something akin to relief flooded her. “You’re awake.” 

Another thought: How much had he _heard_?

His hand found hers, fingers threaded. “I’m awake.” It was whisper soft. “Now, what sort of trouble have you gotten us into, my love?”

Enough, it would seem.


	12. Chapter 12

Once the drug-induced fog of Petyr’s eyes lifted, and he was able to focus on more than just the face of the woman in front of him, the events that put him prostrate in a hospital bed came flooding. Sansa watched it all, the array of his emotions from confusion, to alarm, to an emotion she couldn’t quite place — not on him. Haunted by some unknown threat, Petyr scrambled to sit up with a croak of pain as his reward. 

Sansa’s hands shot to his shoulders then, concerned that he’d cause himself more harm, the precarious ladder of steel trailing up his chest exposed, the skin taut and irritated where it hooked the two halves of him together. “Petyr stop,” she pleaded, but he pushed on against her.

“No.” Petyr cursed as he managed to roll to his side. The guard rail on the bed was down, but Sansa blocked his path bodily as he attempted to swing his legs over to stand. “I need to get back to the house.” Gritting his teeth he yanked out the morphine drip.

The sudden spurt of strength from a body so broken both shocked and scared her. He’s going to kill himself if he keeps this up. She’d never seen him this way. He was manic, his eyes darting to and fro as he assessed the best way to circumvent Sansa’s hold on him. She tried desperately to keep him seated before he did real damage to himself, yelling at the door until her throat was hoarse, “Brune! Dr. Hightower! Somebody help!”

Lothor who’d been posted in the hall — holding the same protective vigil he had since Petyr was first brought in — burst through the door, immediately preventing Petyr’s flight. The man was so much stronger than Sansa, his hands immediately pinning the reluctant patient to the bed, his legs straddling Petyr’s hips as Sansa continued to reason with Petyr. 

“Let me go.” Petyr argued, his whole body in revolt like some sort of berserker. “I need to get to the house. I need proof.”

“Petyr, please, just calm down.” And when her pleas did nothing to ease him, Sansa knocked Brune back a fraction to bend over Petyr, framed his face in her hands, smoothed her thumbs along his cheekbones until the fight left him, until his breathing calmed and his eyes settled, locked onto her sure and steady blue. “There you are,” she breathed, a reassuring smile given just for him. “Tell us what you need. What proof are you talking about?”

He blinked slowly, his normal wit returning piece by piece, the violent reaction to his circumstances receding to almost nothing in the foreground of his thoughts. “In my safe room. The pictures. I need the pictures,” he wheezed.

Her eyes flicked automatically in the direction of the office, where the files and photos sat untouched, before returning back to him. She could still go through them behind his back, have the nurses sedate him once more, but Petyr knew something; something that they didn’t before. After a longer than necessary silence, the question fell, “Why?”

“Because the ambush last night wasn’t sent by the Lannisters.”

Her brows furrowed. Of course, it was the Lannisters. Who else would be after them? “Explain.”

“The men weren’t after Tyrion.” His hand lifted, fingers wrapped around her wrist, thumb making soft circles at her pulse point. It struck Sansa as simultaneously disturbing and comforting, and his next statement did nothing to alleviate that contorted mix as it sat heavy in her heart. “They were after you.”

Disbelieving, Sansa’s hands fell away from him, and he let her go as she put more space between them. “How do you know that?”

“Because the man that tried to kill me… I’ve seen him before.”

Sansa felt as though the floor had fallen out from beneath her.

* * *

After a few minutes, Sansa left Petyr in Brune’s company while she stepped out to catch her breath and calm the beating of her own frantic heart. Who could possibly know she was in the city hiding with Petyr? The obvious choice would be Cersei. Yet, if she knew all this time, why hadn’t she come after them before? Why entertain the idea of Sansa posing as Alayne Stone? The pieces didn’t fit. Cersei was the poster child for reactionary decisions.

Through the door at her back, Sansa could hear Brune explaining what had happened while Petyr was sedated. She was thankful to the man for that. She still wasn’t positive her plan would work, but even if Petyr disapproved, there was no turning back now. It was already in motion. 

Pushing off the heavy, polished wood, Sansa decided there was no more time to waste. It was necessary to get some answers, and Petyr seemed more than willing to grant them for a change. She let herself into the office, and searched the boxes until the photos of herself and her family stared back. She picked out all the images from the last year her father was alive as he requested. She wiped the tears away when her father’s kind eyes stared back up at her from the pile. She missed him so much. He would never approve of what she had done these last few months, yet if she were to do it again, she knew she’d change nothing.

Shaking off the sudden melancholy, Sansa retreated from the room, her gait swift as she ran to Petyr’s side. She entered the room just in time to see Petyr’s expression as Brune relayed the news of his death. Though his cheeks were sallow from his injuries, a grin dimpled them at the revelation. It was enough to make her heart flutter. To be honest, that was the one piece of her plan that she was most nervous to reveal. That he understood what she was doing — buying him time to heal, setting him up as an invisible player for when he was well again — it made pride burn in her chest. 

Both men looked at her expectantly when the door slammed behind her. “I have them.” Sansa laid the stack on Petyr’s lap. The nursing staff must have helped him to sit up while she was away. His drip had been replaced as well. While he wasn’t straight, he could better see the room from his position now. 

He grabbed the first image. It was her father, but it was clearly not what he was seeking. Another, and another filtered through his fingers until he came to the images of Sansa. His eyes narrowed on a figure in the background and Sansa knew he found what he was looking for. 

“I need a pen.” He held out his hand as if it would appear out of thin air and continued to do so until Sansa and Brune had tossed the room. Petyr’s demeanor was impatient until Brune returned from bumming one off a nurse.

“Thank you.” He circled a man in the background, then tossed it aside in favor of another. Another circle made. Another image procured. This continued until Petyr had gotten through a sizable stack of images, until he threw down the pen in frustration, proclaiming, “I’m an idiot.”

“Care to explain that statement to the rest of us?” Sansa asked him as she crossed her arms.

His head collapsed to the pillow behind him. He sighed, but twisted his neck to look at her. “I thought after the fallout with the Lannisters that Ned finally wizened up, took a note out of my playbook, and hired a security detail to watch you. I was wrong.”

“You hired a security detail for me?” Her gaze fell to the photos spread across the bed. Was that why there were so many images of her? Trailing her fingertips along the slick surfaces, they fanned out, and she was able to finally see exactly what he saw. The dark haired man seemed to linger in the backdrop of every image. One or two of them were of her father or Arya, but by and large the vast majority were of her.

Sheepishly, he looked up at her. “I didn’t want more harm to come to you after…” After I was beaten to within an inch of my life for rejecting Joffrey. She shifted her weight, arms tightening about her again as her cheeks blanched. “I told Ned that the Lannisters wouldn’t take the slight without getting retribution. It was a matter of pride to them, no matter that they were in the wrong.” He tapped the image in his lap. “When this guy started showing up in the reports, I just assumed. It didn’t occur to me that he was another player.”

“So who is he?” This time it was Brune that spoke, and Petyr responded with more authority.

“That I don’t know, unfortunately. But,” he passed one of the clearer photos to his man, “we need to circulate this among the men. Ask if they recognize him or noticed him talking with any of our own — especially the men that were stationed with us last night.”

“All the men from last night are dead,” Brune explained.

“Then, chances are our mole is dead, too. I doubt the bastard that tried to kill me is of a merciful nature. He wouldn’t leave any loose ends,” Petyr breathed. Sansa could see just how much all this activity was straining him, but she didn’t dare stop him yet, thirsty for each and every detail he could fill in. A mole in Petyr’s organization? She shivered. “I want you to ask anyway, though. There may be more than one, and if there is, I want them sniffed out.”

Brune gave a grunt, and left to begin the assignment he’d been tasked with.

Petyr closed his eyes, and for a moment Sansa thought she should leave him, but there was something eating at her. “Petyr…” she hesitated before sliding the pics away from his lap, and taking a seat next to him. “If this person is after me, as you believe, do you think he may be responsible for what happened with Mom and Robb?”

“Yes,” he whispered, his hand lifting to cover her own. “I miscalculated. I thought what happened with Ned and the murders of Cat and your brother were linked. It didn’t occur to me that it was a crime of opportunity until that son of bitch sliced me open. Until he asked me where you were. The North has been awfully quiet since I stole you away. Too quiet. I would bet my left arm that whoever is vying to head it in your absence is the person who killed them. Chances are this fellow here, is trying to get you back up North to gain full access to all the Stark assets. You are the eldest, and the one who controls it all now.”

She squeezed his hand, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears as he laid out what he suspected. “But you can’t be certain they aren’t working with Cersei.”

“No, I can’t,” he murmured with sadness. “But I’ve known Cersei a long time. If she were working with someone, we’d know it. She was never one for subtlety.”

Teeth worried her lip, but Sansa accepted his explanation for the truth that it was. Hadn’t she thought the same only an hour ago? “So what do we do now?”

“We can’t fight a battle on two fronts, especially when we aren’t entirely sure who the second party is. For now, we wait patiently until we have more information about what happened at Freys. Until then we focus on Cersei. She’s a known entity, and she’s weak. The Lannister retainers will be panicking. Nobody wants to work for her; it’ll be easy for us to get close. You did well pledging yourself to her aid. We need to arrange a meeting.”

The fact that they had nothing at all to tell them who the Northern traitor was irked Sansa, but hopefully Tyrion would come through with something soon. Gods help them when she does know though. Until then… “Where should we set up this meeting?”

A half-hearted smirk curled his lips. “How about a memorial service?”

One auburn brow arched. “A funeral?”

“My funeral.”

Oh.

“We’ll need to do something about your look though.” He reached up to finger a strand of hair at her breast, his eyes thoughtful. “I’m going to miss all this hair.”


	13. Chapter 13

The document in Sansa’s hand held all her attention as she reclined languidly against the leather beneath her. It held the logistics of the Lannister holdings — their supply routes, their accounts, their payroll. Littlefinger had been a busy, busy man. This report, if placed into the right hands, could potentially bring down the entire Lannister empire, but that was a slippery slope. Without removing Cersei from the equation, the rest of the families could fall as well. It was not beyond the deplorable woman to slit her wrists to save her throat, and take down everyone with her. Petyr might be safe due to his currently assumed state of necrosis, and even Sansa might be able to avoid the flood that would eventually rain down. Yet, if they wanted to control any aspect of the city when this was finished, burning bridges with the rest of the King’s Landing’s influential underground was not the way to do it. 

Sansa rubbed a hand over the back of her neck and stretched in her seat. She’d stared at the pages until her eyes were crossed and her back ached from the idleness. She studied them to take her mind away from the lackluster news Varys had delivered to the club by hand mere hours ago — practically a dead end.

Absentmindedly, Sansa fingered her shorn locks as she rested her eyes. Not since she was a child had her hair been kept so short, and even then never in such a dramatic cut. Died the blackest blue black, the asymmetrical bob followed the line of her jaw, accentuated her cheekbones, making her features appear sharper and causing her startling blue eyes pop ethereally. When Petyr’s stylist spun her back around to face the mirror after tinting her brows and lashes and vacuuming away the last remnants of the undercut he gave her at the last minute, Sansa had a hard time recognizing herself. It was so drastically opposite to the soft femininity that she usually displayed that she found herself staring for a solid minute in shock, and feeling oddly lighter. As if shedding the weight of her wavy locks suddenly relieved her of all the burdens she carried. As though she really could be and become someone else. That was the purpose, she supposed. Up until then, she’d been half-assedly playing the part when necessary, but now she must be Alayne and only Alayne. The thought was as terrifying as it was thrilling. 

But would it be enough to fool Cersei?

“I like the hair,” came Petyr’s strained voice. Tired eyes opened to see him slouched against the door frame, looking pale and wan. She hadn’t heard the door, but this place was eerie like that. Designed for maximum silence; doors didn’t slam or squeak, and the rooms all soundproofed. She barely registered her own footsteps as she traveled the floor; only the whirring of the medical grade HVAC unit that seemed ever present as it pumped in and filtered fresh air — a tomb for the living.

The tense lines of her face softened at the state of him. “You should be resting,” she admonished.

“I was getting claustrophobic in the room,” he grumbled, shambling over — cane in hand — to take the seat next to her. “And the doctor told me I needed to start walking again.”

“Not alone, surely.”

“Don’t worry.” He sank gratefully into the cushions with a groan. “I had a nurse help me down the hall.”

Sansa was about to reach out, push back a peppered curl from his brow that was sticky with sweat, but stopped herself short, fisting the hand in the cushion behind him instead. Her other dropped the papers on the table to her side and fetched the bottle of water she’d barely touched. She unscrewed the lid before offering it to him. “Here, drink.”

He didn’t balk at her offer like he had so many other attempts to help him this week, drinking it down greedily, his throat bobbing with every swallow. “Thanks,” he huffed. Looking between her and the boxes littering the office (some untouched, others in an open state of spelunking) he asked, “Find anything interesting?”

“Nothing you don’t already know, I’m sure,” Sansa said, voice resigned. “At least, I have a better idea of why they targeted my family. I thought it was just Joffrey being Joffrey. It wasn’t though, was it?”

“It certainly didn’t help that Joffrey was a sadistic little shit, but no. Tywin wouldn’t have allowed the move on the Starks unless it benefited his family.”

“They’re almost broke,” she huffed. “They wanted to eliminate us and take over our side of the business.” The partnership had been established for almost twenty years — built on Robert Baratheon and Eddard Stark’s friendship — and if Joffrey was not so much his mother’s son, it could have lasted well into the next generation. But the Lannisters’ endless mines of money had dried up through over cautious investment and excessive expenditures. If Tywin was a man known for his greed, his daughter, Cersei, matched him ad infinitum, but with much more ruthlessness. A scorned wife and daughter with a chip on her shoulder, too familiar with the vices of the world, and hungry for more.

Petyr hummed in the affirmative. “The breakdown of your relationship with Joffrey was a damn convenient excuse though.”

“You could have stopped it.” Petyr had left notes aplenty within the files. He knew precisely what was coming.

“I couldn’t.” Sansa made a face at his assertion, and Petyr defended himself. “I tried, Sansa. Despite your mother’s confidence in me, Ned refused to listen to anything I had to say, and by the time he did it was too late.” That made her sit up and face him fully. “He came to me that morning wanting my resources at his back. He’d not brought more than a few loyal men to act as security for your family, and the Lannisters wanted a meeting that night. I laid out his options. Go and get himself killed or take you girls and run. Get the hell out of town, call in all his retainers, and prepare for a fight.”

“Then, why didn’t he do that?”

Petyr half-laughed, then cringed as pain shot down his chest from the effort, and Sansa found her hands had automatically gone to steady him, face contorted in worry. He blinked slowly at her as the the shock receded, his palm cupping her jaw, his eyes following the line of her lower lip where his thumb grazed. “Your father… He wasn’t built for this life. He was too soft; all about his honor to the point that it blinded him. Even with all the evidence staring him in the face, he couldn’t conceive that his best friend’s son would make a move to take over the city.”

Gripping his wrist, Sansa leaned out of his grasp, but didn’t release it as she put some distance between them. “You could have joined him.”

“Perhaps if I’d had time to cash in a few favors. But your father was rash, and time was scarce. My options were to follow him to the grave, or take what I knew and protect his family. I thought about Cat, about what she would want, and my options were halved.” Sansa bit her tongue in thought, and felt a gentle pressure to her hand. “For your sake, I’m sorry he had to die, but I would do it all over again to keep you safe.”

Sansa wanted to believe him. She did. Because somewhere in this twisted game they played she had begun to care for him. Yet, hadn’t she cared for Joffrey in the beginning before his true colors showed, before the biting remarks turned to bruises on her skin and busted lips. Under the circumstances, she decided to let the doubts she had lie; to accept Petyr’s words as truth because without him she had no options, no resources, no recourse to save the little family she had left (wherever they might be). And she was tired of fighting the battle within herself and the battle with the world. It was easier to accept his version of events in the here and now.

She wiped away the tears that threatened and relaxed back into the sofa, still holding his hand as she rested her head against his shoulder. He stiffened, but didn’t complain. Perhaps he needed the human contact as much as she did — this semblance of affection. “Varys came by the club today,” she sighed.

“And what message did our spider bring?”

“Some news from the North, though to be honest, I’m not sure how much use it will be.” His thumb ran softly along the skin of her knuckles, silent encouragement to continue. “Jon has disappeared. Abandoned his position patrolling the border.”

“Do you think he had anything to do with attack on your family?”

“No! Gods, no.” She waved the horrid thought away. “I’m the first to admit that he and my mother had their issues, but he loved Robb more than anything. He could never do something like that.”

“But you’re surprised?”

“I am. As much as I hate to admit it, Jon is more like my father than in looks alone. He believed in what he was doing. Something must have made him leave, and by all accounts he did so in a hurry.”

Sansa could feel his eyes upon her, and looked up meet his own. “Those gears are working overtime in that brilliant mind, sweetling. Tell me. What are you thinking?”

“I think, that if I know Robb as well as I think I do, he left the boys with Jon. Everyone in the North knew how much Mom hated his existence. He would be the last person that Catelyn Stark would ever entrust with her children...”

“Therefore, it was perfect to do so,” Petyr finished for her.

“Family is the only thing Jon would break his vows for,” she affirmed, to herself more than Petyr. “They’ll be safe with him. I just wish I could reach him without risking everything we’re working towards.” She tried to stretch out her legs, but the table was in the way. She was cramped from sitting for so long, but didn’t want to move away from the warm body at her side.

Petyr noticed her predicament, likely having felt the same way during his extended bed rest. “Here.” He released her hand, pat his legs in invitation to stretch out along the top of him. His hands massaged her calves as she surrendered to the temptation, and Sansa melted into the soft leather at her back with a muted groan. “Better?” he asked.

“Much.” The tension left her as his deft hands continued to knead and smooth over muscle and bone, and she was all but ready to forget everything else for the time being. Then, a tickle rippled up the arch of her foot, and she was startled back to wakefulness. Sansa glared at Petyr’s less than apologetic face. “Ass.”

His face broke into a smug grin. “Tell me what else you learned. Surely, there is more.”

Sansa’s brows furrowed deeply, and she swept an arm behind her head to prop it up to better see him. “Something bad is happening, that much I know. Tyrion’s report said that not even Manderly would talk, and when that bloated gossip is scared, then something is really wrong.”

“Hmm.”

“He did give me something though — a number.” Sansa stretched for the envelope that rested on the table, and fetched the small note within. “I don't know what it is. I thought maybe an account number? But it doesn’t look like any I’ve ever seen.”

Petyr held out the missive in front of him, his eyes narrowing as he tried to make out the scrawl of letters and numbers. “Not an account number,” he said knowingly and smirked. “Are you familiar with the Dewey Decimal system?”

“Wait.” Sansa sat up. “It’s a catalog number? Like the library?”

“Yes. This one, in particular, is for Flea Bottom Community College.”

“How would you know that?”

“Because I’ve used this technique for communication myself. Low level thugs use the school as a way to communicate without drawing attention. It has very little staff and even less security.”

“So what? We go and see if there are incriminating messages?”

“Something like that. I’ll put Brune on it. His investigation into the mole situation has turned up nill so far. Maybe this will help narrow the field, as it were. In the meantime…” A crinkle of paper filled the room, and Petyr plopped a newspaper into her lap.

“What’s this?”

“Take a look at the marriage announcements,” instructed Petyr. “Page D1.”

Sansa huffed and rifled through the pages until a picture of Margaery Tyrell and Tommen Baratheon stared back at her from a quarter page ad. “You have _got_ to be kidding me,” said a wide-eyed Sansa. What game is Margaery playing?

“Quite an agile little gymnast is Miss Tyrell, jumping from one brother to the next. I wonder how Cersei feels about it?” He said smugly, as though her dislike of the Tyrell girl wasn’t already well-known even before Joffrey’s death.

“Maybe I should ask her,” replied Sansa, looking up from the page.

The gleam in Petyr’s eyes was pure wickedness as he responded, “Maybe, you should ask them both.”


End file.
